


Curse of the Morning Star

by JacobFlood



Series: The Gylhain-verse [4]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Depression, F/F, Faustian Bargain, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-12-17 14:39:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 37,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11853657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JacobFlood/pseuds/JacobFlood
Summary: Kara Stormblade made a deal with a devil. She cannot die, her enemies fall before her increased strength and speed, her wounds heal almost instantly. But for the first month of every year, she serves Clavicus Vile. These are the tales of those months.





	1. 4E 209: The Masque, Part One

It was cold and lonely in the highest tower of Arcwind Point, but that was exactly why Kara was there. She was hoping Clavicus Vile would show up as soon as the year began—she had some bones to pick with him about the deal she’d made. She sat with her back against the wall of the tower, staring into the fire in front of her. She could survive without one, she knew, but she still felt the cold and the light made her night that tiny bit more bearable.

She doubted if anyone in the history of Tamriel had made a decision as stupid as hers. It had sounded so tempting, what Vile had offered. But she’d felt the limits of her new powers and found them a curse. She could not die, that much she was sure of. Not blade nor fire nor fall could kill her, although she’d tried many of them and every other way she could think of. Short scars dotted her chest, with matching ones on her back. Longer scars lined the insides of her forearms. With pain from the exterior world losing its meaning, she had made up for it internally.

She again reminded herself to eat. Although she could not die of starvation, she still felt hunger. She’d have to descend from the mountains to find anything, for little lived at Arcwind Point. There had been draugr when she’d arrived, armoured undead with huge swords and the power of the Thu’um. Her ebony greatsword, a gift from the Dragonborn, had carved through them with little effort. Her enhanced strength at work. She could now wield the once-heavy sword with only one hand.

Kara thought of that great hero often. Gylhain, ender of the Civil War, slayer of the World-Eater. Kara remembered their first meeting, on the shore of Lake Ilinalta. With her still clinging to the Stormcloak cause long after the war had ended. And with the Dragonborn essentially in retirement, living above Falkreath with her wife. Gylhain had been wearing no armour, only wielding a single longsword, but she’d made Kara feel like every combat skill she had was worthless. Gylhain had let Kara live that day. More than that, she’d turned Kara aside from her outcast life.

Kara huddled her furs tighter against the bitter winds. The moonlight was obscured by heavy clouds, loaded with the possibility of future rains. The night stretched on, heading towards the new year. Heading towards her first month of serving Vile. Eleven months of freedom, one month of servitude. It had sounded like a good deal. But nobody just deals with the daedra and gets to walk away.

Midnight. The first of the month of Morning Star, the year two hundred and nine of the fourth era. Dawn of a new month and a new year. Suddenly there was a gap in the wind, and Clavicus Vile was there. His form was small and rotund, just as she’d seen him that day she’d stepped through the Oblivion gate. Two small horns protruded from his forehead, he was clothed in multiple layers of fine furs, and his smile was eternal.

He sniffed dramatically and peered around the tower. Still smiling, always smiling. Kara’s eyes met his.

“Take it back,” said Kara, her voice creaky through lack of use. She let loose a harsh cough. Vile crouched on the other side of her fire.

“Take what back?” he asked, all innocent and unknowing.

“This curse,” croaked Kara. “Take it back. I don’t want it.”

Vile’s smile showed teeth. “You want to rescind on a deal? Can’t be done, I’m afraid.” He lacked even the remotest whisper of sympathy in tone and expression.

“But you lied!” said Kara, her voice gaining clarity. “I still feel pain and cold and hunger. I can still be beaten. You lied. You said I would be a . . . a demigod.”

“Are you not?” asked Vile. “You cannot die, you will never age, disease will not touch you—”

Kara spoke over the Prince. “You didn’t mention the scars neither!”

“You never asked,” replied Vile. “Besides, do you think the gods do not feel pain, or cold, or hunger?” He stretched his short arms out and looked around distractedly. “Now, it is the month of Morning Star, and I have a task for you. That was the deal. You can do whatever you want for the rest of the year, but for this month, you serve me.”

Kara didn’t move, but an idea began to take shape inside her mind.

“I have divined the location of my Masque,” said Vile. “It has been recovered by bandits occupying the shipwreck known as the Winter War. You know where that is.”

Kara nodded. Eastmarch, her old home. The wreck was north-east of Windhelm, trapped out in the ice of the Sea of Ghosts. Easy enough.

“Go there,” Vile went on. “Kill the bandits and retrieve my Masque.”

“How do I get it back to you?” she asked wearily. No matter how hard she tried, how tired she became, a full night’s sleep eluded her. She snatched an hour or two whenever she could and always awoke with the fast heartbeat of an escaped nightmare. Every bone and every muscle in her body ached with the weariness, but her enhanced strength and speed seemed unaffected.

Vile’s smile showed teeth again. “Barbas will find you,” he said, and vanished.

Rising, Kara strapped her greatsword to her back and lit a torch from the fire before she stomped it out. She contemplated taking the short, painful way down the mountain, but decided against it. She had no wish to complete Vile’s task any sooner than necessary. The snow was thick as she descended the many steps, Skyrim still fully in winter’s grip. No dead rose as she passed their ancient graves.

She would remember Arcwind Point. Its remoteness suited her very well. With her increased strength, she was always worried about accidentally hurting innocent people. Not to mention the attention—the last thing she wanted was to be an attraction. It was for those reasons she stayed away from civilisation as much as she was able, avoiding the cities altogether, travelling off-road, only venturing into the smaller towns when she was desperate for supplies.

She cut herself off from others, and so had no news of those who she had once travelled with. Gylhain, the Dragonborn, had vanished too after the battle with the Thalmor and daedra at Helgen. That fateful day when everything had changed for Kara, when she’d stepped through the gate and made her deal with Vile.

She assumed Dar’epha and Vash were still running with the Guild and the College respectively. Kureeth and Falin she knew had spoken of settling in Winterhold too. Antario, the only one Kara could truly have called a friend, had not spoken of his plans. She did not know if he was even still in Skyrim. Overcome with the consequences of her own choice, Kara had vanished into the wilds after the battle at Helgen, emerging too late to find her comrades, to her great regret. Antario had been a formidable ally, and a better friend than she’d deserved.

Soon enough, she reached the base of the mountains and emerged into the south-western end of the Rift. Faint edges of Secunda peeked through the clouds, Masser still completely hidden. She headed north, passing through what had once been, five years prior, an Imperial Legion camp. Their position within the province secure, they had long abandoned such camps for the relative comfort of forts and cities. Only an abandoned anvil and Kara’s useless war memories marked the location.

Kara ran her hand across the anvil, wiping the snow off its rusting surface. She remembered the old days when she’d run as a Stormcloak, the familiarity she’d needed with the wilds of Skyrim, particularly the eastern half. She moved on. To the east a small Dwemer ruin jutted from the earth, but she left it well alone. Bandits usually occupied its stone crevices. She had no wish to be reminded of her curse, and a fight was a sure way to do that.

* * *

 

It was still night when she came through Ivarstead, the small town lying asleep in the shadow of the Throat of the World. Not a soul marked her passage. With both moons now visible, Kara put out her torch and decided she might as well stick to the path. The risk of encountering a traveller was worth the ease of the travel itself. Down the hills and the winding paths she went, drawing out each step into its own special moment in time.

Dawn had begun to creep upon Skyrim when she reached Darkwater Crossing. The mining camp with its single building and collection of tents was still and quiet but for one figure: a Dunmer named Sondas Drenim. Kara knew him of old—the Stormcloaks had often passed through the camp during the war, on their way to some doomed endeavour.

The miner was sitting crosslegged next to the fire around which the tents were encircled. He was using a long branch to jab at the coals, trying to resurrect the flames from the previous evening. He eased to his feet as Kara approached and made a gesture. He guided her silently away from the tents, over into the small fenced garden that abutted the house. They grasped wrists.

“It’s been a long time,” he said, looking her up and down. Kara wrapped her arms around her torso in the vain hope of hiding something. “Thought you might’ve died in the war.”

“No,” said Kara. The war felt several lifetimes ago. She was changed, in too many ways. She paused—how to explain what she did now? How to explain her deal with Vile, her inner emptiness, the way her eternal life stretched before her? “I guess . . . I’m an adventurer now,” she said. Technically true.

“A dangerous life,” said Sondas. “Lonely too.” Kara just nodded. “You need any food?” he asked. “Supplies?”

Kara shook her head. Times were hard enough for the miners, she didn’t want to add to their troubles. “I can manage on my own,” she said.

Sondas frowned and looked unconvinced. This wasn’t the Kara he was used to conversing with. “Well,” he said, “there’s always work in the mine if you ever need gold.”

Kara shook her head again. “I don’t need gold,” she said. She preferred the open air, to feel the wind on her face. Spending so much time underground, hammering at the earth day in and day out, was not the life for her. She knew that Sondas would take her refusal as a suggestion that she had enough gold already—the truth was that in her new lifestyle she had abandoned it entirely.

* * *

 

Sondas tried to fill Kara in on recent happenings around Skyrim, but she barely listened. She bid him farewell and forsook the path again, heading north-east across Eastmarch, working her way around the warm bubbling pools. The air grew warmer, but she kept all her furs on. In Skyrim, the heat never lasted. She would be slogging through snow again soon enough.

She passed by one of the standing stones, avoiding its blessing. The way was uneven, but she went on. Soon, too soon, Bonestrewn Crest loomed before her. A notorious dragon lair, although the Dragonborn had killed most of them during her time, so there shouldn’t—

An unmistakable roar shot up from the peak of the Crest. A roar that every being in Skyrim had quickly learnt to fear since the World-Eater had descended on Helgen all those years ago. Kara had been there, had seen the birth of the legend and barely escaped with her life. Again she felt the primal fear, then remembered who she was and what she had to do. A dragon loose in Eastmarch could cause unmeasurable damage, and the Dragonborn wasn’t around to save everybody this time. She drew her sword and sprinted up the path to the peak, moving at a speed no mortal could ever hope to match. Time to put Vile’s curse to good use.

There, atop the curved stone wall embedded with ancient runes in ancient tongues, sat a huge dragon. As she approached, its great bronze wings spread and the beast catapulted itself into the air. She skidded to a halt, her eyes following its flight. She bent her legs and waited for the beast to pass over her.

The circling dragon approached, bellowing words Kara could not understand, did not need to understand.

“ _Yol-Toor-Shul!_ ” it roared. A great pillar of fire came towards Kara, the dragon swooping in low above her with the intent to incinerate her in an instant. Kara felt the heat wash over her, felt her skin ripple and burn, felt her hair and furs catch fire. She launched herself, a standing jump straight up, reaching just as high as she needed to. Her greatsword sliced along the dragon’s belly. Red blood spurted onto the ground.

The dragon roared again and crashed to the earth in front of the carved wall. Kara’s landing was just as graceless. Her vision blurring, her sword-grip loosening, she thumped back to the dirt. Her legs gave way and left her on her side. She scrunched her eyes closed, jagged lights darting across the insides of the lids. When she opened them she saw the dragon coming for her, a blood trailing from its wound.

Still smouldering, Kara ran at the ancient creature, slashing a deep cut along its right side, hacking at the nearest wing. If it took off again, she’d never catch it. It turned to snap at her, but she met it with her sword, drawing blood from its snout. She struck again. The dragon tried to pull back, but was stopped by the carved wall.

Backed into a corner, the dragon lashed out with a front leg, gaining power by pushing off against the wall. The force of the blow cannoned Kara across the peak, almost sending her off the not-insignificant drop. Instead of meeting air and then the ground below, she met a spire of rock with her back. She cursed and rushed the dragon again.

It swiped at her again, but she was prepared and did a short jump back out of range. Coming in, she brought her sword down, breaking into the dragon’s skull—a blow that would have been beyond her before the deal with Vile. The huge form crumpled in the dirt.

Kara dropped to the dirt as well, rolling in it to put out the fires that still held in her hair and on her clothes. The dragon’s corpse lay unmoving.

* * *

 

In a pool near the base of Bonestrewn Crest, planning to clean her sword, Kara found herself examining her reflection. Her clothes were scorched with black marks. Her hair had taken the worst of the dragon’s fire, most of it a tiny fraction of the length it had once been. She drew her knife and hacked off the remaining long pale blonde strands. She ran a hand across her new shorn scalp. A finger’s width was all that remained, and her scalp was blistered and scarred by the fire, as were parts of the left side of her face. Her left ear was unrecognisable.

She spat into the fool, breaking the mirror. She sheathed her knife and moved on, uncaring. She’d never thought much of her own looks to begin with—too thick in the neck, too small in the eyes. A scarred visage seemed appropriate to her, an outward manifestation of her curse.


	2. 4E 209: The Masque, Part Two

Her scarred face now another reason to avoid contact with others, Kara crossed the road that connected Windhelm and Riften. She crept into the mountains, more comfortable in the snows. She walked a route that took her halfway between Kynesgrove and the orc stronghold of Narzulbur. She grinned momentarily. If anyone in Skyrim could take her in with such a face, it was the orcs. Still, she moved on.

Kara cut deep into the mountains, up a steep hill that ascended behind a dragon mound. Thankfully, there were no more dragons in sight. She came close to the border with Morrowind as she skirted the bandits at Traitor’s Post, descending again towards the shore. It was well past noon when she reached the Sea of Ghosts. She wandered along its frosty edge, wondering she was going to have to swim out to the wreck.

Fortunately, there was a small rowboat perched on the shore, trembling on the verge of being swept out to sea. She folded herself into it and rowed the short distance, expecting shouts from a lookout at any moment. Reaching the shore of the small icy island, she advanced up the hill to the wreck.

The figurehead stretched into the sky, cresting the top of the hill and visible from a long distance. Kara drew her sword and moved towards the carved statue, its features unreadable through long weathering. She stepped around a pair of bear traps and found herself with a clear view of the wreck that had once been the Winter War.

The large vessel had hit the ice and snapped in two, the gap between the two halves spanned by a makeshift bridge of boards wrenched from elsewhere on the ship. The front half, onto which Kara stepped, was empty of life. Only ruined barrels and crates dotted the deck. But the rear half of the ship sported a roasting spit next to the cabin, with a lone figure in studded armour turning meat over a struggling fire.

A Nord woman, Kara saw, like herself. The bandit reared up upon seeing Kara, drawing an iron sword and yelling for her comrades. Instead of treading the slippery boards to cross the gap, Kara leapt it at a run, landing with a crunch directly in front of the bandit. Her sword cut through her foe’s armour like it wasn’t there. The bandit fell, but Kara could hear sets of feet running up the stairs below. She took a position by the side of the cabin door.

When it opened and a small Bosmer in furs came out, Kara swung and severed his head in one clean swipe. An arrow took her in the gut. She grunted and entered the cabin, finding a Nord man with a dark beard and a bow, fumbling for another arrow. Kara made the distance to him before he could get a proper grip. She made a last-second decision and changed the angle of her strike, cutting off the bandit’s left leg instead of his head. He screamed and fell to the floor, his blood creating a widening pool around him.

“Don’t go anywhere,” Kara told him. She pulled the arrow from her gut with a grunt, then descended the stairs. She searched all the obvious places on both halves of the wreck. No more bandits, but more importantly, no Masque. She returned to the main cabin and found the bandit still staring in disbelief at his severed limb, letting out short gasping breaths.

“Where’s the Masque?” she demanded, standing over him. It wouldn’t do well to fail Vile on her first assignment.

The Nord spat blood. “That fucking elf took it!” he said. He groaned. “Took the last fucking rowboat, left us out here.” He spoke through grinding teeth, his beard turning a dark shade of red.

Kara reprimanded herself. She should have checked for tracks around the rowboat when she’d come over. She should have also known the task wouldn’t be as simple as Vile had made it sound.

“The thing’s cursed!” said the bandit. He tried to spit at her but could only manage to bubble the blood on his lips. “And so are you!”

“That’s exactly why I’m looking for it,” said Kara. She drove her sword through his skull.

* * *

 

She found the tracks back on the mainland. They headed up the hill and east. It seemed this elf, whoever he was, had decided to head for Morrowind with his cursed cargo. Kara followed in his footsteps, scanning the snowed countryside for any other signs of life. She doubted the elf knew there was someone on his trail. She could only guess how much of a head start he had, but she hoped she could catch him before he crossed the border.

Kara slogged on through the snow, quickening her pace. She reached the road that would lead her through Dunmeth Pass and into Morrowind. The tracks continued on, and so did Kara.

She reached Refugees’ Rest in good time. She expected to find herself in a fight—trolls or bears usually took to inhabiting the ruins. However, two frost trolls lay dead on the road, their white fur showing evidence of both blade and magic. Lightning, to be precise. Kara adjusted her assumptions about her quarry. She’d thought of him as just another common bandit, low in skill and without effective arms. But he was clearly a spellsword, and a reasonably capable one.

Kara was reminded of her old friend Antario, who’d also fought with sword and lightning. The chances of him being the one escaping (attempting to escape, she reminded herself) into Morrowind with the Masque of Clavicus Vile were, unfortunately, too low to even be considered. A bandit was her quarry. A competent one, but a bandit nonetheless.

She paused for a moment at the graveyard that lay behind the ruins. She stood in silence, wondering who the dead might have been, what they had run from, what they had hoped for. Snow began to fall and she cursed, returning to the road with redoubled speed. The new falls would cover her foe’s tracks if she wasn’t quick enough.

* * *

 

Night fell as she trekked through Dunmeth Pass. The tracks vanished completely. Kara was forced to halt, her sight becoming useless in the rising dark. Both Masser and Secunda were hidden by clouds and the falling snow. She regretted not asking Vile for night vision. She went without a fire, huddled against a rock wall, feeling the chill of the winds that rattled and swished through the pass. She didn’t sleep.

At first light the snows were even thicker. All her strength and speed proved unhelpful against the thick white blanket. Still, she continued on, realising that it was unlikely she’d catch the bandit before he entered Morrowind. Or that she’d ever be warm again. There was a dull aches to her extremities that she didn’t want to examine.

Gradually, the ground began to descend. The white snow gave way to grey ash. The road worsened, became little more than a track. Kara found herself in the land of the Dunmer. The years had not been kind to Morrowind, she knew. As if the eruption of Red Mountain was not enough, the Argonian invasion still dragged on, forcing the capital to relocate north to Blacklight. It was there Kara guessed her quarry was heading, it being the closest city to the Skyrim border.

Without the thick snows slowing her progress, Kara was able to increase her speed dramatically. She shook herself free of the last of the snow and broke into a run, not stopping to look for tracks, merely following the path, hoping to catch the bandit before he reached Blacklight. She doubted the town’s authorities would understand her bargain with Vile and let her cut down the bandit and make off with his valuables.

* * *

 

The city was a blur on the horizon when Kara sighted her quarry. Closing the distance between them, she saw him to be a Dunmer, no doubt thinking he was heading for home. He scurried along as fast as his dented iron armour would let him, clutching a sack to his chest.

Kara drew her sword as she ran, letting out a yell to announce her presence. She might be doing Vile’s dirty work, but she would do it on her terms. The Dunmer swivelled to see the huge Nord bearing down on him, flicking his eyes back towards the city to evaluate his chances. They weren’t good. He dropped the sack and drew a slightly bent Dwemer sword, his left hand preparing a spell. Kara’s charge did not falter. His face came into her view: narrow, with a dirty black ponytail of hair swishing with his movement, the smatterings of a beard emerging from his chin.

He loosed a bolt of lightning that cannoned into Kara’s chest and sent her sprawling on her back in the ash. Her flesh tingled and she cursed. Vile hadn’t seen fit to give her any special defence against magic. She rose and rushed at the Dunmer, beginning a lazy horizontal slash. Her foe ducked. He came up and buried his sword in her gut. She roared and cut his forearm off.

He fell back, clutching the stump, staring up at her with wide red eyes. His sword still jutted from her middle as he frantically tried to prepare a healing spell with his remaining hand. The glowing light in his hand faded in and out as his pain made it impossible for him to concentrate.

Kara dropped her own sword and withdrew the Dwemer blade from within her. The pain overtook her vision for a moment and she dropped to her knees. When she got back to herself, the Dunmer was watching on, speechless. She reached for his sack and rummaged through it. The Masque of Clavicus Vile was inside, stained with blood and ash. She held it by one of its horns and gazed into its hideous visage. Vile would no doubt grant it to another champion in some part of Tamriel, a reward for services rendered.

“What in Azura’s name are you?” asked the Dunmer. His spell failed again and he clamped his hand over the stump. Blood spilled from between his fingers and dripped in red globs to the ash.

Kara spat her own blood. “Azura’s got nothing to do with it,” she said. She still held the Dwemer sword in her hand. She looked at it and the Dunmer. She looked down the road to the east, the way they’d both been heading. Blacklight was visible, perhaps two hours’ travel by Kara’s reckoning.

“Unlucky,” she said. The Dunmer managed to nod in agreement. “Any last words?” she asked him, raising his sword. She didn’t know why she said that. There was nothing he could possibly say to make her let him live. She doubted he’d make it to Blacklight in his condition even if she did.

The Dunmer stared at her, at his own sword, at the Masque, at his severed limb.

“You . . . you wanted the Masque,” he stammered.

Kara nodded, already regretting saying anything but unable to stay silent. “Needed,” she said.

A short laugh escaped the Dunmer’s lips. “I would’ve . . . I would’ve given it to you,” he said. “If you’d asked. I just . . . just wanted to get home.” His eyes turned towards the horizon, straining with the effort. His gaze fixed on Red Mountain, the huge spire dominating the landscape, still spewing ash into the sky. The sky of his homeland.

“I’m sorry,” said Kara, and drove his own sword into his chest. She left it and him there and turned back to the west, intending to return to Skyrim. In her path sat Barbas, the hound of Clavicus Vile, his shaggy fur thick with ash. She tossed the Masque to him and he caught it by a horn between his jaws. He spoke as if there was no obstruction to his mouth.

“Our master wishes for you to return to Skyrim,” the dog said. “The affairs of Morrowind are not for you.”

Kara supposed she shouldn’t have been surprised. Of course Vile would have different agents, operating in different regions.

“The month of Morning Star is not yet done,” continued Barbas. “Our master has another task for you.” Kara resented his use of the collective pronoun, but before she could protest, the dog said, “I will find you once you have returned to Skyrim.”

He turned and vanished into the ash with Masque. Kara stared down at the dead Dunmer, his eyes still fixed on Red Mountain. She picked up her sword and stepped slowly down the road to the west, backtracking towards the Velothi range. Morrowind held no allure for her. It might have been the bandit’s home, but Skyrim was hers.


	3. 4E 209: The Shrine

Kara was camped in Refugees’ Rest when Barbas found her. She’d been there for a week, fading into the ruins whenever a traveller or caravan came by. Nobody saw her. The last thing she wanted was stories circulating of a scarred woman in the wilds who wouldn’t die. She hoped, too, that the month of Morning Star would run out before the dog got to her. No such luck for the cursed.

The hound of Clavicus Vile trotted through the opening in the tower. He found her clearing stones, trying to turn the place into something habitable. Travellers could do with a safe place to stop on the road again. Somewhere to hide from the snowstorms, somewhere to regroup before heading down to Windhelm or setting off through Dunmeth Pass. Maybe the Jarls could do something, or a businessperson could take the opportunity. Kara felt she had to put her talents to some use other than killing.

“Our master has a task for you,” said Barbas, his voice making Kara’s teeth grind. She dropped the piece of stone she was carrying and resisted the urge to cave the dog’s head in with it. “His shrine has been desecrated,” the dog went on, “by vampires serving Molag Bal. You must go there, and cleanse the place.”

“Where?” grunted Kara, not wanting to trade words with Barbas any longer than absolutely necessary.

“It is known as Haemar’s Shame,” said Barbas. “It is located—”

“I know where it is,” said Kara. On the road that connected Falkreath and Riften, running through the north edge of the Jerall Mountains, south of the Throat of the World. A notorious lair for all sorts of dangerous creatures and people, Haemar’s Shame was the main reason why travellers avoid the route in favour of the long way around. She stomped out the doorway past Barbas, hoping he wouldn’t say anything else. She didn’t look back to see whether he’d disappeared or not.

Cleanse the place. Kara knew what that meant. Killing, and lots of it. And she had the power to do it. Well, she thought, wasn’t that what she’d wanted?

* * *

 

She went through the mountains again, keeping to the far-flung reaches of Skyrim. She emerged back at the dragon mound above Kynesgrove. She skirted the settlement and crossed the road to reach the White River. Staying on the east bank, she moved upriver at a sedate pace. The sun was too high in the sky for her liking, but she knew of a place to wait it out.

A shack rested on the shore a short walk south, long abandoned, its boards crumbling apart, its valuables long-scavenged. She spent the rest of the day attempting to turn it into a serviceable place to stay, although there was only so much she could do without proper tools. Nor was she more than a barely competent carpenter.

Vile had said that she was free for the rest of the year to do as she wished. There was no reason, she decided, she could not commit herself to making Skyrim a better place. Her talents would certainly be useful in removing monsters and villains from the province. But balancing it with her desire to stay hidden would be the real challenge.

Evening crawled around and Kara left the shack, heading upriver. She swam across and rejoined the road, now empty of travellers as the night drew closer. She passed Mixwater Mill without incident. At Fort Amol she took a detour to avoid being spotted by the Legionnaires. They still had the capacity to unsettle her, a remnant of her old Stormcloak life.

Soon she was passing near Ivarstead again, well into the Rift. Almost back to where she’d begun the month. But instead of heading further south towards Arcwind Point, no matter how its isolation called to her, she turned west, up the road heading through the mountains.

The faint moonlight, gradually sliding behind clouds, was guiding her way by the time she reached the place where the road began to slope upwards. Dim, but manageable. However, a single torch bobbed ahead of her. She halted. Her hand moved to her sword-hilt. The torch-holder became aware of her.

“Who goes there?” a voice called out. “Come into the light so I can see you.”

Kara took her hand away from her sword and approached. The speaker turned out to be a middle-aged Redguard woman, hints of grey edging into her shaggy black hair. Her clothing was of a similar mismatched fur to Kara’s, though worn from travel rather than dragon-fighting. She had a large pack slung over her shoulder, along with a hunting bow and a woodcutter’s axe. At least two knives were also visible on her. She carried the load with ease and her expression was welcoming.

Kara came into the circle of light. The Redguard’s eyebrows went up at her appearance, but said nothing about it. Kara silently thanked her.

“Don’t often meet other travellers out here,” said the Redguard, pausing to cough. “Where might you be headin, if you don’t mind me askin?” She adjusted her grip on her pack.

Kara contemplated telling the truth for a few seconds. “Over to Falkreath,” she said. “Looking for work.”

“Sellin your sword, eh?” replied the Redguard. “Aye, I been there alright. Hard life.” She peered at the countryside around the road. “I was just about to set up camp,” she said. “Care to share my fire? I got plenty meat to go round.”

Kara narrowed her eyes. A truly generous person just wandering the roads of Skyrim? She supposed she had nothing to fear, thanks to Vile. Besides, she could use a good meal. Eating had again slipped her mind on the way from Refugees’ Rest.

“There a catch?” she asked.

“No catch,” replied the Redguard. “Just been a while since I had some conversation, is all.” She moved off to her left. “Come on, if you’re comin.” Kara looked up and down the road before following the light. She wouldn’t have been able to see her way for much longer anyway, she reasoned.

“Name’s Waylas,” said the Redguard. She dropped her gear and drew her axe. Kara tensed until the torch was thrust at her. “Hold this,” said Waylas. “I’ll go cut us some wood.”

Kara was left standing there, peering into the darkness, unable to make out the traveller in the gloom. She heard the sound of axe meeting wood and it wasn’t long before Waylas returned with an armload of the stuff and set about making a fire.

“I been hunting these parts for years,” she said, taking the torch from Kara and using it to light the fire. She extinguished the end of the torch in the dirt. The fire was small, but seemed enough for Waylas’ purposes. She removed some large cuts of meat from her pack and skewered them, quickly setting up a spit over the fire before sitting. Kara sat opposite, removing her sword and resting it across her own crossed legs.

Waylas whistled. “Now that is a fine weapon,” she said. “Ebony, yeah? I ain’t seen the like of that in a long time.”

“You said you used to be a sellsword?” asked Kara. Waylas didn’t seem to need much of a prompt to get going.

“Oh, sure,” she said. “So long ago, seems like it can’t have been me. Like it must’ve been someone else doin those things.”

Kara nodded. She understood more than she would’ve liked.

“Born and raised in the Imperial City,” Waylas went on. “I ran with the Thieves Guild for a while as a young’un. Wasn’t long fore someone decided I was in their way and set some mercs on me. Fun while it lasted, though.” She turned the meat slowly. “Ended up in Hammerfell after that. Seems my homeland ain’t the place for me. Couldn’t stomach the war. Went north to High Rock. Best place in Tamriel for a sellsword.”

She paused and stared into the fire for a moment, a smile spreading across her face. “Fifteen years I spent there,” she said. “Made the best friends I ever had. Exciting times. Nough adventures for twenty people to be happy with.” Her smile disappeared. “Not a lot of those friends still alive,” she said. “Not a long life expectancy in the sellsword business.” She met Kara’s eyes. “I came here, hunting around the Rift. Over in Falkreath too. Sell my meat. Enough to get by. Don’t have much use for the big cities.”

Kara nodded. She was increasingly with her on that one. Too many people in the cities, too many eyes.

“What about you?” asked Waylas. “What’s your story?”

Kara was silent for a long while, thinking over how to phrase it, where to begin. Waylas didn’t push her, just waited patiently, turning the meat.

“I . . . was born in Windhelm,” she said. “Joined the guard soon as I was old enough, then the Stormcloaks when . . . all that happened.”

Waylas smiled. “All seems so important when you’re young, don’t it?”

“I hung onto the cause long after the war ended,” Kara went on. “Eventually I . . . realised I was wasting my life, went back to Windhelm for a time. Got myself apprenticed to an alchemist.” She didn’t know why she wasn’t mentioning the Dragonborn. She’d also all but forgotten that for a time there, she’d had a trade to call her own. She shrugged and willed Waylas to fill the silence. She didn’t.

“I got caught up in Thalmor business,” Kara said. A gross simplification, she knew, but there was no way she was telling the woman who wanted to share a meal with her about her journey into Oblivion and meeting with Clavicus Vile. His name seemed to hang over everything she said. “Afterwards I . . . didn’t feel at home anywhere any more. Took to the wilds.”

Waylas nodded. “Them Thalmor are some fiendish bastards, that’s for sure,” she said. She pulled the meat off the fire. “It’s ready.”

* * *

 

After they’d eaten and Waylas had drifted off to sleep, Kara stood up and shouldered her sword. Keeping as silent as possible, she took Waylas’ torch and relit it with the coals of the fire. She stopped and looked down at the traveller’s sleeping form. She never thought she’d find someone to share a simple meal with, in these cursed days, but she couldn’t stay. Her own decisions had made her a dangerous person to be around.

She began the climb towards Haemar’s Shame, the shrine of Clavicus Vile.

Fuelled with anger at her own curse, the first vampire’s thrall inside the cavern fell with a single strike, almost cut in two pieces. Advancing, she didn’t see a pressure switch until it was too late, the spiked gate swinging into her and leaving puncture marks dotting her skin. She came back from the blow, to the astonishment of the nearest vampire, who began to launch ice spikes at her. Kara deflected the worst of them with her sword and got close enough to drive it through the vampire’s chest.

The fight to the shrine would have killed the mortal Kara two dozen times over. Peppered with arrows and ice spikes, singed by flames, cut by blades, she took it all and kept going. She searched every corner for vampires, exterminating all in her path—often twice over due to the vampires’ preference for necromancy. Frequently she didn’t leave them enough of a body to resurrect.

Splattered with blood and pulling arrows from her skin, reached the shrine of Clavicus Vile. A small Breton man kneeled before it, holding a bloody dagger. A dead vampire lay before him. As the Breton looked up at her with wide-eyed wonder, she saw that he too was a vampire. She raised her sword to finish the job, but a voice came from the shrine.

“No,” it said. And it was the voice of Clavicus Vile. His statue was not a depiction in common with how Kara had encountered him. Instead of short and portly, the stone carving was of a tall horned man in flowing robes, his left arm reaching upwards, holding a representation of his Masque. A stone Barbas stretched alongside. Kara found that even carved in stone Barbas annoyed her.

The Breton’s face split with a hideous vampiric grin. “You’re the champion,” he said. “I knew you would come. Lord Vile said you would come.”

Kara gave him a disparaging look and turned to the statue. “Is that it?” she asked. “Am I done?”

“Yes,” replied the voice of Vile. “For this Morning Star, your tasks are finished. You have pleased me.” Kara had the sensation that the statue was grinning. “You’ll be hearing from me next year.”

Kara lowered her sword. The Breton attempted to talk to her again, sniffing heavily.

“I am Edwin,” he said, puffing himself up. “Lord Vile has given me a very important task. I am to infiltrate the Volkihar vampire clan, who serve Molag Bal. I am to—”

“Save it,” said Kara, “for someone who gives a damn.” She stomped past him, looking for the back exit.

* * *

 

Emerging into the night snow, she looked down at herself. Secunda had appeared from behind the clouds during her time in Haemar’s Shame, letting her see with some clarity. Her furs were full of holes and stained with blood. An arrow she hadn’t noticed protruded from her shin. She yanked it out. She was going to need some new armour—though nothing too conspicuous.

What to do with eleven months off? Maybe there was some way to morally counterbalance what she did for Vile. An atonement. She struggled to remember something Sondas had told her at Darkwater Crossing before she’d left. Something about the Dawnguard reforming. She had no idea who they’d been before, but they sounded like an organisation that would have a use for her talents.

Kara scratched her scarred scalp and set out eastward, heading down into the Rift towards the fort of the vampire hunters.


	4. 4E 210: The Vampire

In the late hours before the year two hundred and ten of the fourth era reared its head, Kara felt the old hollow feeling return. Her eleven months with the Dawnguard had been eventful, to say the least. There, striding towards the final confrontation with Harkon, Serana by her side, she had felt something . . . not quite happiness, but perhaps an escape from the suffocating distance. But her curse was about to reassert herself in the worst of forms.

Kara stopped and Serana stopped with her. Their snowed surroundings were lit by both moons, the trees casting long shadows. They were in the Pale, heading west, neither breaking the night’s silence. Serana had recognised early on in their acquaintance that Kara was not a great conversationalist, and usually filled the gaps with her own wry observations and chatter. But that night, on their way to such a destination, even Serana had gradually become quiet.

“It’s time, isn’t it?” asked the vampiric woman, her first comment in over an hour. Kara nodded. “How can you tell?”

Kara frowned under the full-faced helmet of her Dawnguard armour, trying to put it into words. She was glad that she had relented one night over a campfire in the Forgotten Vale and told Serana of her curse. The vampire, at least, had been understanding of the bargain struck, had mentioned the stupid decisions she’d made in her own life. As they’d trekked through those snows offing Falmer, Kara had explained the details and limits of the curse, until Serana knew as much about it as Kara did herself.

“It’s like something crawling around in my stomach,” she explained. “A spider, or a nest of ants.”

The wind stopped and he was there. He wore the form of a battle-ready warrior. A long green cape billowed out behind him, his armour glistening and silver. Long curved horns protruded from his head. His smile stretched on forever. Clavicus Vile.

“Nice armour,” he said.

It was true—Kara’s equipment had improved significantly since their last encounter. She wore Dawnguard armour, heavy and grey. A dwemer crossbow was slung across her back, a longsword of the same make at her hip. Her ebony greatsword, her comrade for so long, had been lost during the collapse of the bridge in Darkfall Cave. Serana wore lighter Dawnguard armour, red in colour. Her sword was orcish in make, looted from an unprepared bandit. She carried Auriel’s Bow and a quiver full of sunhallowed arrows on her back.

Kara sought to pre-empt the daedric prince. She wasn’t about to stand there and see all her hard work with the vampire hunters come undone. She began to take a step forward, then decided against it.

“We’re serving your interests,” she said quickly. “The Volkihar clan serves Molag Bal. Taking them out will weaken his powers in Skyrim.”

“Oh, don’t worry yourself about that,” said Vile, folding his arms in a fluid motion. “I would’ve stopped you long ago if it were otherwise. Just pay a visit to the shrine when you’re finished. I have a proposition for you.” He paused, his eyes never blinking, his smile never faltering. “And don’t worry about Edwin, he has already returned to High Rock.”

Kara would’ve spat if it hadn’t been for her helmet. She’d only met Edwin for a short moment, but she’d recognised for a slimy weasel of a man. She would have been happy to introduce his innards to the daylight. Or moonlight, rather, given her habit of doing business at night. Part of it was Serana’s vampirism, part of it was Kara’s preference for avoiding large crowds who would gawk at her scarred face.

Vile turned to face Serana, seemingly noticing her for the first time. He did a small bow and licked his lips.

“A Daughter of Coldharbour, always a pleasure,” he said.

Serana returned the bow. “Likewise, I’m sure,” she said, unable to keep a mocking tone out of her voice.

Vile laughed. “Have fun at Castle Volkihar, you two,” he said. He grabbed the edge of his cape in a gauntleted fist and pulled it around him. With a flamboyant swish, he was gone. Silence reigned over the night once more.

“Gods, he _is_ unpleasant,” said Serana finally. Kara didn’t move, didn’t speak. “Do you want to talk about it?” asked the vampire.

“No,” Kara muttered through clenched teeth. “Let’s just go.”

* * *

 

Before the night was through, the pair reached Morthal. Standing on the snowy boardwalk outside Falion’s house, Kara looked at Serana with concern.

“You sure you wanna do this?” she asked.

Serana nibbled at her lip and nodded. “Let’s get this over with before I decide to run off and hide in a vault for another thousand years.”

She knocked, and the door was answered by an adolescent girl.

“Are you here to see Falion?” the girl asked.

Serana’s smile was pained. “Yes,” she said. “Is he home?”

“Let them in, Agni,” came a throaty voice from within. The girl stepped aside, allowing Serana and Kara to enter the small home.

The Redguard mage Falion was hunched over his enchanting table, tinkering with some soul gems. He did not turn around to face them as they entered.

Serana cleared her throat. “We’ve gathered what you asked for,” she said. She extracted a filled black soul gem from a pouch.

Falion turned then. As last time they visited, he gaze lingered on Kara’s helmet longer than it did on Serana. “Both of you?” he asked.

Serana shook her head. “Just me,” she said.

“Well then,” said Falion. “It is time to bring life to your dead body. Follow me to the summoning circle in the marsh. We shall banish the creature you have become.” He collected a few things from his shelves before advancing towards the door. At the last moment, he addressed Kara. “This is for your friend to face alone,” he said.

Kara opened her mouth to make an objection, but Serana shot her a look, so she closed it again.

“You may remain here with Agni,” said Falion. “In the unlikely event you can cause harm to her, I shall damn your soul for eternity and make your walking corpse my butler.”

Kara had to supress a bitter laugh as the mage left with Serana. Her soul had been damned for a long time.

* * *

 

After over an hour of pacing Falion’s house, barely listening to Agni talk about her apprenticeship, Kara was finally rewarded with relief as Serana and Falion re-entered the building.

Serana’s eyes came up, and they were a vibrant green. After an exchange of coins and cursory farewells, the pair were on their way again, dawn almost upon them. Once out on the road, the ex-vampire pulled her hood back and craned her neck towards the sky, drinking in the fresh air.

“I feel so warm!” she exclaimed, her smile wider than ever.

“Just wait,” said Kara, “the chill will get to you soon enough, just like the rest of us.”

* * *

 

The day dragged on and Kara tolerated Serana’s enthusiasm for the simple pleasures that the journey brought them. Soon enough though the cold became fiercer as they walked along the irregular inlets of Skyrim’s north coast to Icewater Jetty. A lone rowboat and a lone vampire hunter awaited them. It was Florentius Baenius, dressed in heavy red Dawnguard armour, but practically jumping up and down with excitement.

“Brilliant!” he exclaimed upon seeing them “Arkay told me you would come. Isran said otherwise, but I believed! Come, come, the others have crossed.” He leapt into the boat and put his hands to the oars. Serana and Kara joined him, unable to keep from smiling at the little priest’s enthusiasm. Thankfully, Florentius had never received any messages from Arkay about what Kara was hiding from the Dawnguard. The organisation more or less allowed her to operate independently anyway, only returning to the Fort to deliver reports or receive new assignments.

“Why don’t you let me do that?” asked Kara, moving to take the oars from Florentius.

“Of course!” replied Florentius. “I am in awe of your prodigious strength. You are indeed one of Arkay’s most favoured!”

“I wouldn’t say that exactly,” smirked Serana. Kara bent to the oars and sent the boat sliding across the water with powerful strokes.

* * *

 

When the three put ashore, the assault was already underway. The armoured trolls of the Dawnguard went toe-to-toe against gargoyles at the end of the bridge, while the Dawnguard peppered the vampires with crossbow bolts, many returning fire with spells.

Kara dove into the fight, but Serana paused and strung Auriel’s Bow. She launched an arrow not at the vampires but up at the sun. There was a delay, then near-blinding light descended on the gloomy island. The vampires cringed back and a cheer went up from the Dawnguard. It was a devastation that Serana would have shared in just a few hours earlier.

“Forward!” yelled Isran, waving his warhammer in the air, casting a bright aura of light around himself. The Dawnguard scythed across the bridge even as one of the trolls fell to a gargoyle. Isran himself smashed that gargoyle’s skull. Kara was reloading her crossbow as fast as she could manage, delivering bolts charged with lightning into death hound, gargoyle, and vampire alike. Serana was conserving her sunhallowed arrows, but resurrected a fallen gargoyle to cause destruction among their foes.

A vampire with an axe bore down upon Kara. She threw her crossbow in the monster’s face and drew her dwarven sword. Again she wished she hadn’t lost her previous weapon. Its great ebony blade would have proved useful carving through her current foes. Still, the Dwemer blade proved up to the task, its substantial weight cleaving through the vampire before her.

Kara took the vanguard, shrugging off blows and magic, powering through the few remaining vampires, kicking open the doors into Castle Volkihar. Serana came to her right, Auriel’s Bow at the ready. Isran was on her left, almost overcome with the fury of the battle. As soon as she was inside, Kara started running. Reaching the main room, she leapt from the balcony, landing with a crunch, surrounded by vampires. She impaled one quickly, then turned the fight into a furious melee as she cut down all around her. Explosions of light came from behind her as Serana joined the battle. Behind her, the rest of the Dawnguard joined suit, spreading out through the Castle.

“This way!” yelled Serana, running to the back left corner of the room. Kara followed her, splattered with the blood of her enemies. They went up two sets of stairs and around a corner to reveal a portcullis guarding huge double doors. Serana pulled a chain and the portcullis rose. The pair looked at each other and advanced without a word, moving together through the doors into the cathedral.

* * *

 

In the dim and vaulted room, Lord Harkon greeted them. Standing in the centre of the cathedral, his manner was relaxed and confident, as if he had expected such a turn of events from the very beginning.

“Ah, Serana,” he said. “I see you are still fond of taking a pet.”

Kara had long grown tired of Harkon’s predictable gibes. She charged at him, her sword raised to cleave him in two. As the blade came within an inch of his head, Harkon dissolved into a swarm of bats. They fluttered apart as the blow came through, the swarm cascading away to coalesce behind her. On both sides of the room, the cracking of stone announced the awakening of several gargoyles.

“Take them!” called Serana. “I’ll bring my father out where we can get a proper shot at him.”

Kara dived right and hacked at a gargoyle’s neck, the beast roaring and spitting dust. Claws from another raked at her back and she turned, pulling her sword free only to run through the opponent that had attacked her. Bursts of bright light periodically lit up the cathedral as Serana tried to pin down her father. From Kara’s left another gargoyle tackled her to the floor, its teeth and claws clacking furiously at her armour. Her sword out of reach, Kara resorted to the tactics of an old comrade: unarmed combat.

She slammed her armoured fist repeatedly into the gargoyle’s face, got her feet flat on the floor, and used her free arm to launch herself upwards. Her strength took the gargoyle by surprise and her next punch knocked the beast back enough for her to grab her sword. Another explosion of light overtook the cathedral as Kara opened the gargoyle’s skull. The fourth and final gargoyle met with a slower fate, Kara hacking away as it swiped at her ineffectively.

Looking up, she saw Harkon hunched at the far end of the cathedral in human form, panting heavily, several arrows protruding from his chest. Serana was stepping closer, another nocked and ready. Kara moved to back up her friend but left her room to deliver the killing blow.

“Hiding behind sunlight and mortal toys,” spat Harkon, flecking his chin with blood. “You were always weak, Serana, just like your mother.”

Serana gritted her teeth and launched another arrow into her father. There was another explosion of light, then nothing remained but his sword and a puddle of bones and blood.

“We’re done here,” said Serana. “Let’s get the hell out of this place.”


	5. 4E 210: The Sword

“He’s dead?” asked Isran when the pair exited the cathedral. Kara nodded, watching Serana stare into space. “Damn,” said the Dawnguard leader. “I would have liked to land the final blow myself.” He pushed past them more forcefully than necessary and vanished into the cathedral. Isran had never been convinced by anything Kara and especially Serana said. Probably he was checking that there had not been any last minute betrayal.

Sharing forced smiles with the others on the way out, and promising to attend the forthcoming victory celebrations back at the Fort, Serana and Kara left Castle Volkihar. On the bridge a light snow was falling and they stood for a while, Kara examining her friend’s face.

“Well, what the hell are we supposed to do now?” asked Serana. Kara shrugged. She had a meeting to make at Vile’s shrine, but beyond this month, into the coming year . . . she did not know where she would go or what she would do. There would always be vampires and the Dawnguard would probably always be willing to have her help in eradicating them. But would Serana be content to remain in such a life, especially now without such grand purpose?

“You shouldn’t go to the shrine,” said Serana after a long silence. “Screw the deal, screw your month of servitude! Let him stew, let him send whatever daedra he wants after you. You can take them . . . we can take them.”

“Not if I break the deal I can’t,” said Kara. Anger cut through her and she spoke without thinking. “Maybe deals weren’t honoured back before you locked yourself in a coffin, but things are different now. If I break my end of the deal, I lose my powers and get cut down by whatever bandit takes a liking to my gear. I ain’t letting that happen.”

Serana’s own gaze was tinged with anger and she moved in closer to Kara. Snow landed in her hair. Kara knew they were both thinking of Serana’s forced induction into the fold of Molag Bal, a deal made without her consent and with considerably more pain than Kara’s.

“I got out of my deal, why can’t you get out of yours?” asked Serana.

“Because I wanted mine!” yelled Kara. Immediately she regretted the outburst. She turned away from Serana, grateful for her helmet for the thousandth time. But it was true. She had known the deceitful nature of the daedra, had known that horrors that the deal would bring, and she had taken it anyway. Her strength, her speed, her immortality—it was all she had asked for and more. In Kara’s mind, the one month of servitude was still a small price to pay for the benefits she could reap in the other eleven.

Silence reigned over the bridge, the snow gradually building up around them. Serana seemed to be on the verge of some decision, staring at her hands, trying to take in the new world that had opened up to her.

“I’m going back to the Fort,” she said, and started to stride away. Kara watched her go, and found herself unable to think of anything to say to make the woman stay.

* * *

 

Kara did not sleep on her way to the shrine. Although such rest had become easier for her to achieve over the previous year, her dreams were still horrid, filled with hellscapes unrecognisable from her brief time in Vile’s realm. They twisted and morphed from one nightmare to another, crawling monsters and creeping dreads overwhelming her mind until she awoke, lashing out at invisible foes. It was far more preferable to skip sleep altogether, even if it felt like a sacrifice of her progress at learning to live with her curse.

She left her dwarven sword buried in a frost troll somewhere in Haafingar. There didn’t seem any point in wearing the Dawnguard armour either. Her acts during the month of Morning Star would forever stain the rest—the vampire hunters didn’t need someone like her bringing their ranks into disrepute. At Robber’s Gorge she massacred her way through a pack of bandits, deliberately crushing her Dawnguard armour into unsalvageable pieces. She instead put together a mismatched outfit of fur and hide, taking a rusting iron sword as her weapon.

During her fight with the bandits, Kara had a realisation. Her invulnerability had made her lazy. Her fighting skills were, if anything, going backwards. Just because she was unable to die didn’t mean she had to charge into every fight with raw power, taking as many hits as she dealt out. Her goal had been to become a better warrior, but instead she had become a lazy warrior, leaning on Vile’s crutch.

She trod through to the shrine alone. She stood in front of the statue and spread her arms wide, grinding her teeth at the silence.

“Well?” she said.

“You’ve gone down in the world rather quickly,” came Vile’s voice. “Look at yourself. You used to carry fine weapons that carved through your enemies. Quality craftsmanship.” He paused. “And that delicious daughter of Coldharbour appears to have forsaken you.”

“What’s the job, Vile?” said Kara.

“So hasty,” said the daedric prince. “And so rude. I have a proposition for you. A sword you will never lose. A sword of finer quality than anything forged in this realm.”

“And what will you take?” asked Kara. “My voice? My eyes?”

“Where have you gotten such ideas?” said Vile. “I ask only to take back the speed that I gave you.”

Kara stared at the statue’s face for a long time. She remembered losing her grip on that ebony greatsword as she and Serana were swept down Darkfall Passage. She remembered her conviction to become a better fighter. A strong blade would be a foundation on which to build her skills. And yet, another deal with Clavicus Vile? She supposed, last time, she had gotten exactly what she had asked for. This, at least, was simpler.

“Back to the speed I had before?” she asked.

“Of course,” said Vile.

“And it’s a sword I can actually use in the all the regular ways,” said Kara.

“Why Kara,” said Vile, “it’s as if you don’t trust me.”

“Answer the question.”

“Yes,” said Vile. “You will never use a finer weapon.”

“Then I accept,” said Kara.

“Brilliant!” said Vile. The statue’s stone hand lowered with a creak and where Kara was sure there had once been his Masque, there was now a blade. The hilt faced towards her and she grasped it. It came away easily and when she blinked, the stone hand was back in its raised position.

The sword was unmistakably daedric in make. Although the shape of a standard longsword, every part of it was black, down the blade to the guard and to the hilt. Thin red lines came down the blade and the grip felt as if it had been moulded to fit her hand. It had weight, she could tell, even with her increased strength. Perhaps enough that without that strength she would wield it two-handed. There was no scabbard.

“It only partially exists in your plane,” came Vile’s voice. “Release it and it disappears. Will it to your hand and it will come.”

Kara dropped the sword. It promptly vanished. She held her hand in the same gripped position and imagined the sword being there. It promptly returned. She was satisfied, but didn’t want to give Vile the satisfaction of knowing that.

“You still haven’t said what you want me to do,” she said.

“You recall Edwin,” said Vile. Kara did, unfortunately. “He has gotten himself captured by some Vigilants of Stendarr.”

“Didn’t the vampires kill all of them?” asked Kara.

“Sadly, no,” said Vile. “Their camp is in the mountains to the west, not far down the path into High Rock. Release him.”

“You mean I gotta walk all the way back to Haafingar?” asked Kara. There was a pause. “Yeah, sure. I’m going.” She gave her new weapon a few experimental swings on her way out, dropping it and calling it back again. She barely noticed that the pace of her walking was back to its regular plod.

* * *

 

She retraced her steps to the high mountains west of Solitude. One time on the road she saw a group of Dawnguard headed in her direction and she ducked away into the trees until they had passed. She stole sleep in the shadows of broken forts, between clefts of rock, under trees heavy with snow. She got the mechanics of her new sword down to a fine art.

The best part, she thought, was that it looked to others as if she was not carrying a weapon at all—apart from the hunting knife she kept somewhere in her pack. But then all she had to do was make the decision, and the sword would be in her hand at the speed of a thought, ready to bring death.

Kara wasn’t sure when exactly she crossed the border into High Rock. If there had once been a sign, it was now lost to weather or vandalism. She trudged through the snow, keeping a lookout for any smoke that would signal a campfire. It was hard to pick against the grey sky, but when she saw the vertical stream of movement, she headed slowly in that direction. She wasn’t sure about how much of Morning Star was left. With any luck, it would end before she got to Edwin.

She rummaged around in her pack for a fur hat with flaps to pull down over her one good ear and one twisted nub. No point in sneaking around, but no point in creating a memorable impression, either. She walked into the Vigilants’ camp without a word. It was daylight, and there were three Vigilants, all awake. Edwin was on his side, tied hand and foot and had blood running down his face. Whenever he thought the Vigilants weren’t looking, he extended a tongue to lap at it. He grinned when he saw Kara. The Vigilants rose and had their hands near their weapons, though Kara didn’t imagine she looked much like a threat.

“Something we can help you with?” one of them asked.

She looked at their fire, with the stringy rabbit cooking above it. Their packs looked thin. The Vigilants usually operated outside of regular laws and she wondered if they were planning on torturing Edwin before killing him. She wondered if she could come back later after they’d started.

Edwin started laughing. One of the Vigilants kicked at him and the vampire Breton thrashed on the ground. He licked again at the blood on his face.

“You fools have been hunting vampires,” he said, “but in all your combined years, I’ll bet you’ve never seen anything like her.”

Two of the Vigilants had drawn their traditional steel maces. The third, with their sword still at their belt, was preparing some kind of spell.

This last one looked at Kara and said, “If you don’t have business with us, you should leave now. We are in Stendarr’s service and will allow no interference.”

Edwin grinned wide. “And she’s in Lord Vile’s service. You’d all best start making peace with your god.”

“Enough!” said the mage Vigilant. They launched a spell that pushed Kara out of the camp. She slammed into a tree trunk with her back and dislodged a great deal of snow. When she had risen and shaken it off, she saw there was a crack in the trunk large enough to make a gesture of strength. With one hand she pushed on the tree. With a great creak, it toppled away from her and across the road. It hit the ground with a thunk and a splinter grazed her cheek.

When she looked back at the camp, the three Vigilants were coming towards her. Time to put her convictions on fighting to the test. At first she couldn’t get used to her reduced speed. She had not intended to be hit, but the first mace strike hit her in the left shoulder. She staggered and rose with rage. She held her hand out towards the Vigilant’s chest and summoned her sword. It appeared, half of its length buried in her foe’s body. She released her grip and the sword vanished, the Vigilant crumpling.

She frowned. It was an efficient method, but not exactly compelling or skill-building. She ducked another mace swing and summoned the sword to parry the next one. The mage was further back, working on some other spell, so Kara allowed herself some time to trade blows with the Vigilant. Her sword never shook or chipped and she was sure it would never dull. Maybe every time she let go of it a daedric blacksmith in Vile’s realm went to work on removing whatever marks she’d added to it.

She fell for a feint and took a mace hit to the side of the head. She went down into the snow, her grip on her sword lost, her vision swimming. She felt another blow impact on her ribs. But Kara, unlike her enemies, could learn from such mistakes. She kicked out at the Vigilant and shot their leg out from under them. They dropped to one knee and she propped herself up on one arm, bringing the sword back into the opposite hand and cutting into the Vigilant’s neck.

Kara rose and faced the final Vigilant, who proceeded to paralyse her. Suddenly unable to do more than blink, Kara dropped again to the snow. Again her sword disappeared. She saw the Vigilant above her, a steel sword in his hand.

“I don’t know what foul sort of creature you are,” he said, “but here you face judgement.”

He drove his sword through her chest and the paralysis spell prevented her from screaming. She’d been impaled before, but there was no way to learn to cope with such pain. Her interior organs, she knew, must be as scarred as her skin. More scar tissue than not, soon enough. The Vigilant withdrew his sword and she continued to blink at them. His eyes widened. She heard Edwin laughing.

Whatever training the Vigilants were giving their mages needed some work, because the paralysis spell wore off then. The mage went to drive the sword down again, but Kara rolled to her left and got to her feet. She brought her own sword into her hand and relished the clash of metal that followed. The Vigilant tried to get past her guard but could not manage it. The longer the fight dragged on, the more she saw weariness creep onto her foe’s face.

Abruptly she found herself just as tired. She swung at his weapon so hard that it cracked. The shock of holding half a blade left him stunned enough to finish him off. She walked calmly over to Edwin, still wriggling in his bonds on the ground.

“Now be careful with that thing,” he said. “Lord Vile told you to rescue me.”

Kara hesitated above Edwin, then made a show of looking around at the camp. Three bodies staining the snow red. Much of her own blood too. She let go of her sword and started walking away.

“Where are you going?” called Edwin. “Untie me!”

Before she reached the road, Kara turned back. She gestured at the bodies.

“Your captors have been dealt with,” she said. “Enjoy your new freedom.”

Likely he would manage to get himself free soon enough, Kara knew, but she enjoyed his continual fading shouts as she headed eastwards. Back towards Skyrim and whatever the coming year held for her. Somewhere, she thought, Clavicus Vile was laughing.


	6. 4E 211: The Beggar

Kara almost prayed for the next month of Morning Star to arrive. Her year had not gone well. Upon returning to the Dawnguard, she’d found Serana gone. Nobody would say where, though she was sure somebody knew. Isran was openly hostile towards her and she indulged herself in dangling him out high above the foyer before leaving. She couldn’t see herself getting a warm reception on a return visit.

Which meant that as the year two hundred and eleven of the fourth era came closer, Kara looked back on hollow times. Mostly alone, she had crisscrossed Skyrim, seeking out bandits, twisted necromancers, and whatever other evils she could. She eliminated them all and received nothing in return.

The beginning of the new year found Kara in the Rift. She’d found a small hut that seemed to have once belonged to an alchemist, and was busy making it habitable. It wasn’t much east, really, from Vile’s shrine—and she was reasonably sure that her shared meal with Waylas had been somewhere nearby. She remembered that night clearly, even two years later, and often found herself wondering if the Redguard hunter was still out there, taking the world as it came, or if one of the many dangers of Skyrim had found her. Kara, at least, was trying to do something about those dangers. As much as she could, without attracting attention.

She’d kept track of the days, and so was waiting inside when Clavicus Vile appeared, just after midnight. She sat on the bed, in the moonlight coming through the window, summoning and dispelling her sword over and over—which had become something of a habit in recent months.

When Vile appeared he looked like an Imperial man. Dressed in a long blue robe, his hair was shoulder-length and black, held back by his long forehead horns. He looked around the hut, always smiling.

“Keeping yourself busy, I see,” he said.

Kara halted in her habitual sword-cycle with the sword in hand.

“Who d’you want me to kill this time?” she asked.

“Why Kara,” said Vile, “are you accusing me of being predictable? I’m cut ever so deep.” Yet his smile remained.

Kara ran them off on her fingers. “Kill the bandits who stole the Masque. Kill the vampires in the shrine. Kill the Vigilants who captured Edwin—”

“Ah,” said Vile. “I told you to rescue Edwin. Achieving that by killing his captors was entirely your decision.”

Kara flinched. “There was no other way they’d let him go.”

Vile shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not.” He paused and folded his arms. “By the way, dear Edwin was most put out with you. He had to roll around the snow for an hour before he could get free.”

Kara grinned, then quickly quashed it when she noticed it matched Vile’s. She didn’t want to share anything with him. She certainly didn’t want to start adopting his mannerisms.

“You still haven’t said who I’m killing,” she said.

“So hasty,” he said. “Before we get to that, I have another deal for you. I see how much you’ve been enjoying your new sword—its original owner is very shaken by its loss.”

Kara shrugged. “If they want it back, they can take it up with me,” she said. Less bravado and more a deadened acceptance of her curse, now. “What’s the new deal?”

“A set of armour,” said Vile. “Gleaming, glorious armour. As easily to don as your sword is to draw. Impenetrable by blades or magic. And all I ask in return is for the strength that I gave you.”

“No,” said Kara, too quickly.

“Would you care to reconsider?” asked Vile, still smiling.

Kara shook her head. Her strength had seen her through many a fight, and though her skills had improved greatly over the last year, she found now that even though she could probably manage without it, she was reluctant to let it go. And she hated herself for it.

“Very well,” said Vile. “I was planning a simple task for you, something that wouldn’t have taken more than a day or two. But if you cannot bring yourself to accept a brilliant deal when it is offered, then I will find other ways to occupy your time.”

Kara stood, sword still in hand. She wondered what would happen if she took a swing at the daedric prince. He wasn’t really in the mortal realm, she guessed, but her sword had its own connections to Oblivion. She hesitated. If Vile could read her thoughts in her face, he made no mention of it.

“Travel to every Hold capital,” he said. “Kill one person from each. When the city has walls, the death must occur within the walls. That should keep you busy.”

“What?” said Kara. She waved a hand at her uncovered scars. “I’m pretty fucking noticeable here, they’ll have my description in every city after the first.”

“I imagine so,” said Vile. “A challenge for you, then.” He vanished.

Kara spat at the place where he’d been. The challenge, she thought, was how to avoid spending most of the month in prison with cities still remaining on her list. Vile had never told her outright what the consequences were for failing in his orders. But her nightmares had a specificity to their horrors that she knew couldn’t be a coincidence.

The time constraint was going to weigh on her mind. She dismissed her sword and quickly filled a pack. Just food, really, but more importantly, its presence made her to appear more like a genuine traveller. She crammed her fur hat down over her scarred scalp. She’d kept her hair short for reasons she couldn’t properly articulate. The fact that it was winter made the hat less conspicuous, and she’d long discounted a hood as too suspicious.

She left the alchemist’s hut without looking around. She wished then she hadn’t traded away her speed. Still, she began to make tracks towards the nearest city: Riften.

* * *

 

Kara decided to go through the north gate into Riften. Though the south gate was lesser-used, it was precisely because of that she thought she’d be more remembered if she went through there. It was still a couple of hours until dawn, however, which made her arrival more noticeable than she would have liked. Still, it couldn’t be helped. She had a deadline to stick to.

The guards on duty both took long hard looks at her as she stood waiting to be admitted.

“What brings you to Riften?” asked the first guard.

“Business,” said Kara. True enough.

“What sort of the business?”

“Got a friend here who owes me some money,” she said. The second guard laughed and the first one thumped twice on the gate. It began to open inwards.

“Good luck with that in this town,” they said, waving her through.

Kara wandered the quiet walkways and alleys of Riften. More than once she thought she saw a moving shadow at the edge of her vision, but when she turned, there was nothing. At first she tried not to think of what she had to do, pretending she was just a traveller seeking a bed for the night, or some work to get them enough coin to see them to the next town. But then her weary bones reminded her of her curse. Who to kill in Riften? It would be best to make it quick and move on. There was no way of knowing what sort of complications could arise in the other cities.

A guard was too tricky. They were well-equipped, and she didn’t have time to learn their patrols. The Thieves Guild held a tight grip on Riften, or so she’d heard. She had a . . . an acquaintance in their ranks, a Khajiit called Dar’epha. But it had been years since they had seen each other’s faces, and they had never been close. Perhaps everybody who’d known Kara once, before her deal with Vile, thought she was dead. She couldn’t decide whether she preferred it that way or not.

She found herself descending to the lower walkways. A dangerous place to wander alone at night. Kara trod the wooden boards as quietly as she could, examining doors and poking her head into corners. Dark water just a hand’s width or three below her, and shadows staking their claims all around. In a nook that led to a bolted gate, she found a sleeping figure. Dirty and dressed in rags, she labelled him as a beggar. Every large city seemed to have one. This one was a Nord, elderly with white hair retreating across his scalp.

He came awake as Kara watched him and darted back, only to clang into the gate. She hoped the noise wouldn’t attract the guards as she extended her palms and moved closer.

“Come to stare at the dirty beggar, have you?” he spat. His movements were slow and he wrapped his arms across his chest against the cold. Kara crouched within reach of his leg and stared into his face. She wondered how she was supposed to feel on such an occasion. She had killed many times before, but this . . .

“Have you nowhere to sleep?” she asked.

“Does it fuckin look like it?” he said. “They kicked me out of Beggar’s Row. Said I was gettin too friendly with the women. I ask ya—man tries to show a little compassion for a woman’s situation, and all he gets is kicked out from under the only roof he’s got!”

Kara nodded, her decision made. She supposed she should be thankful. He could have been one of those saintly beggars she’d heard about.

“I understand,” she said.

“You do?” asked the beggar, his face lighting up. “Everybody else just looks down their fuckin nose at me.”

“If you’d like,” said Kara, “I could have a word with them, see if they’d let you back in.”

“Why would you do that?” asked the beggar, instantly suspicious. “What d’you want from me?”

“Nothing,” said Kara. She swung her pack off her back. “Here, I might even have some food for you.” She took out a piece of honeycomb the size of her fist, wrapped in hide to stop it sticking to everything else. The beggar’s eyes went wide. He snatched it from her hand and had half of it down his throat before Kara had her hand back in her pack for her knife. She stayed crouched and watched the beggar finish his meal.

He was licking his fingers when she said, “I’m sorry.”

She pulled the knife from her pack and pressed her free gloved hand against the beggar’s mouth, pinning him to the wall. She swiftly cut his throat and kept her hand tight over his mouth until after his struggles ceased. Afterwards she found herself cleaning the knife on his ragged bedding and pulling off her gloves to wash her hands in the dirty water outside. No guards appeared, either further along the boards or from above.

Kara stared at the corpse for a long time. She knew she should linger in Riften for a while longer, make her ruse for being there seem more legitimate, to deflect suspicion away. But the more she stared, the more she wanted to be on her way. She shouldered her pack and resisted the urge to summon her sword there and away again.

She went out by the south gate and took a wide loop east around the city walls. She kept out of sight of the guards on the north gate, not wanting to be asked about her imaginary stingy friend. The faintest hint of dawn was edging over the mountains in the east as she set her sights northward. Habit made her drift off the road, but she pulled herself back. No time to take her wilderness detours, not when she had so far to go until her old home city: Windhelm.


	7. 4E 211: The Patriot

Kara passed many travellers on her way to Windhelm. She met eyes with none of them and made it to the city before noon. The sky hung thick to every horizon and she knew it would not be long before the snow started to fall. She hesitated before starting across the bridge into the city. How many people here would recognise her? It had been a long time since she had worked in The White Phial, but she couldn’t gauge how much her appearance had changed. She pulled her hat down tighter and started stomping across the stones towards the gate.

Another concern was that the guards had connected her to the dead beggar back in Riften. Suspicion would fall on her quickly, given her quick entrance and exit. Or maybe she’d been seen. Maybe some Thieves Guild member had been lurking in a shadow across the water, or behind the gate. Maybe they’d slyly reported the murder to the guards and the net was already tightening around her.

Yet Kara was waved through into Windhelm without complaint or questioning. She positioned herself at the brazier just inside the entrance and extended her hands towards it, like she was just another traveller coming in from the cold. She used the position to watch as the people of the city moved about. Some of them—a priest, a shopkeeper—she recognised. Though it had been more than three years since she’d stood where she now did, she avoided everyone’s eyes.

Who to kill? There was nobody she could think of in Windhelm who was intensely deserving of death. The Butcher had once haunted those narrow streets, hacking apart young women for sadistic necromantic purposes, but the Dragonborn had long ago taken that criminal apart. The streets were safe now, as far as Kara knew.

She look over towards the path leading down to the Grey Quarter. To bring her curse down there seem grotesque to her. The Dunmer of Windhelm had suffered enough under Ulfric’s rule—though thinking of the old Stormcloak leader brought an unexpected spike of pain through her chest.

The Argonians at the docks were likewise discounted. In addition, she wasn’t sure the docks would count as being within the walls of the city, as Clavicus Vile had specified. There was a resident beggar in Windhelm, Kara recalled, though she couldn’t remember their name. But the thought of another ragged soul dying cold and alone filled her with weariness.

She had no coin, had previously had no use for it, but she wished now she’d scavenged some during her free months, for she could desperately do with a drink. The prospect of entering Candlehearth Hall seemed dreadful to her anyway. Maybe over at the New Gnisis Cornerclub she could find clientele more to her liking.

Despite her promise to keep out of the Grey Quarter, she found herself headed in that direction. She got a few strange looks as she trod into the Dunmer part of the city, but kept her eyes in front of her. By the looks of the buildings there, their lot had improved somewhat since her last visit. Perhaps Jarl Brunwulf had made good on his promise to provide a more integrated Windhelm.

More direct evidence of this was provided once she entered the Cornerclub. An Argonian, once banned from the city proper, sat at the bar. Kara didn’t recognise them from the brief time she’d been allowed into the Assemblage under special circumstances. The only other patron was a rather drunk Nord who Kara did recognise: Rolff Stone-Fist.

Once a devout follower of the Stormcloak way, he had apparently taken to alcoholism in peacetime. He used to make it his occupation to wander through the Grey Quarter and yell at its residents exactly what he thought of them. Maggots and parasites. Imperial spies. Grey-skin filth. Thalmor agents.

What he was doing in a Dunmer bar, then, was beyond Kara, but she pulled up a stool and ordered ale. The bartender, an ageing Dunmer who she recalled was named Ambarys, brought it to her without a smile, almost slamming the flagon on the bar. Rolff, alone at a table, was muttering racist diatribes under his belt.

“Never should have fallen,” he was saying. “Only because of you grey-skins. Working from the inside! Without you . . . traitors! Ulfric would’ve, would’ve sent you back. To where you belong.”

Kara drank half her ale in one gulp. “Why don’t you kick him out?” she asked the bartender.

Ambarys frowned at her, then grunted and moved away. The Argonian further down the bar answered the question.

“Not from around here, huh?” he said. Kara shook her head. The Argonian took a swig of his drink before explaining. “Jarl’s got all these new policies bout tolerance. The Nords tolerate use and we tolerate them. But if we start chucking patriots”—he grinned viciously at the word—“out of bars, who d’you think the guards are gonna side with? Who d’you think they’re gonna say is disrupting all this new peace we’re all supposed to be working so hard for.”

Kara grunted. An idea not entirely awful was working its way into her mind.

“I’m a Nord,” she said.

“I noticed,” said the Argonian.

“No, I mean—what if I got rid of him?” she asked. “Then it wouldn’t have anything to do with you.”

The Argonian shared a long look with Ambarys.

“You serious?” asked the Argonian.

Kara nodded. “No lingering Stormcloak sympathies here,” she said. “That shit’s ancient history.”

“Not around here it isn’t,” said the Argonian. “But alright. If you’re for real about this, I’ll even pick up your tab.”

Kara raised her flagon towards him and drank. Rolff appeared not to have noticed any of the discussion concerning him. He was still muttering, but Kara blocked it out. Better to consider him a piece in a game, a solution to a problem.

“You’ll have to make a show of it,” said the Argonian.

“Let some guards see,” said Ambarys.

“But not just the guards,” said the Argonian. “They’ll twist it their own way.”

Kara almost balked at the idea of attracting so much attention. She stood and drained her ale. “Been a pleasure drinking with you, gentlemen,” she said.

“Wait!” said the Argonian. “What’s your name?”

Kara hesitated before saying, “Kara.” It wasn’t like she planned to come back, anyway. By the end of this month she’d likely be the most wanted person in Skyrim. She judged she ought to leave off her Stormblade title, though—too much Stormcloak association for the current audience. Neither the Argonian nor Ambarys seemed to recognise the name.

“Alright,” said the Argonian. “I’m Okan-Zaw. This is Ambarys.”

Kara nodded like this last bit was new information to her. She walked to the door and left it hanging open. There were a few passers-by, though she wondered how often guards came into the Quarter.

“Alright, Rolff,” she said, loud enough to be heard in the street. “Time to go.”

His head jerked in her direction, his brow furrowed as his mind struggled through the layers alcohol had piled on it. She wondered if their previous interactions would be enough for him to recognise her. She hauled him out of his chair and threw him out onto the stone slab that functioned as a porch for the Cornerclub. He rolled onto his back, groaning and cursing.

“That’s what you get when you start talking shit like that,” Kara announced, looming over him. She pulled him up again and held him off the stone by his collar. None of the Dunmer nearby looked particularly upset about what was happening. She gave him a light headbutt, deliberating holding back her full strength. Still, his nose bled and he began to snarl at her.

She dropped him again, noticing the crowd gathering. Ambarys and Okan-Zaw were in the doorway of the Cornerclub behind her, watching with folded arms. Kara grabbed Rolff by his right leg and started dragging him up the steps, his head bumping on each one. She had a loose plan to do away with him near the door to the docks where she could make a quick escape.

It was then that two guards descended into the Quarter, stopping her plan in its tracks. One of them drew their sword.

“Release the citizen,” one of them said. Kara did not.

“He started it,” she said. She reached down and pulled Rolff to his feet again. “Insulting the good people of Windhelm, he was. I stood up for this city’s reputation and he took it poorly. He decided a fight was the way to settle things.” She was still speaking loud enough for everybody to hear. From the doorway of the Cornerclub, Okan-Zaw winked at her.

“Release the citizen,” repeated the guard. Kara shrugged.

“If you insist.” She released him with a shove that sent him down the steps, past the height of the Cornerclub to the lowest point in Windhelm. There was a crack as he landed. Some cheers went up from the gathered Dunmer, but more looked concerned. His limbs were sprawled in a position that in Kara’s experience meant only one thing. In this case, that it was time for her to move.

The guard with their sword drawn breathed a curse and hurried past Kara to check on the body. The other guard looked at her for a moment.

“What?” she said. “An accident. Anybody could slip on these steps. And he was drunk.”

“Stay right there,” said the guard, before hurrying after their comrade.

Kara started walking towards the docks door but heard her name called after her. She ignored it and was through the door and walking down the steps before Okan-Zaw caught up with her.

“Wait,” he said, grabbing at her arm. She had a hand halfway to his neck before she remembered herself. Light snow had started to fall.

“Shouldn’t you be there backing up my story?” she asked.

Okan-Zaw shook his head. “The Nords like us even less than they do the Dunmer. The others’ll sort it out. Best for me to pretend I’ve been in the Assemblage all this time.”

“I have to go,” Kara said. She headed towards the edge of the docks, planning to walk out across the ice northwards.

“Wait,” said Okan-Zaw again. She turned back, one foot already up on the ledge. “How did you know Rolff’s name?” asked the Argonian.

Kara hesitated for longer than she knew she should. The guards were probably already coming after her. And she’d made a spectacle in only her second city.

“Maybe I spent more time around people like him than I’d care to admit,” she said.

Okan-Zaw took a step back, a frown coming onto his face. A look of distrust, and one Kara knew well. To her surprise, however, he quickly overcame it.

“Whatever your past,” he said, “you’re on the right side now.”

Kara grimaced. “You go and see how Rolff’s doing and see if you still want to say that.”

Okan-Zaw shook his head, allowing himself a look back towards the stairs. “There’s atonement for everything,” he said.

“Not for me,” said Kara. She turned away again and stepped carefully onto the ice. As fast as she could, she headed north, for Winterhold.


	8. 4E 211: The Mine Worker

Kara started running as soon as she hit solid land. She didn’t look back to see if Okan-Zaw was still watching, or if the guards had seen her exit. She headed north through the snow, dreading what was to come, cursing Clavicus Vile. Somewhere, she was sure, he was falling out his throne in vicious laughter at her agonies.

Winterhold in particular she was not looking forward to. Just as Windhelm had held many possible old acquaintances for her, so did Skyrim’s northernmost city. The Battle of Helgen, which had been the catalyst for her encounter with Vile, had featured several citizens of Winterhold. Vash, the Archmage, a few other mages from the College Kara hadn’t known the names of, and the Argonian-Bosmer couple, Kureeth and Falin. Winterhold was a small town and Kara didn’t know how she could manage to avoid so many people there, let alone carry out a murder.

A capital without walls, too. Kara didn’t know how close to the town centre she had to make her kill for it to qualify, but she wasn’t going to take any chances. The prospect of a do-over made her stomach churn. She stomped through the snow, flicking her sword in and out of her hand.

She reached a location where she was sure there had, once, been a Stormcloak camp. Apart from a flat sort of space where there was room for several tents around a fire, there was no sign that anyone had ever resided there. Just the unbroken white of the snow. Kara tracked her bootprints across it and knew that they would be covered soon by the new falls. Even if there was someone after her, this was the least likely direction for anyone to flee.

A little further on was a shrine to Arkay, which she ignored. She wondered if the gods would bless her now, even with her curse. The idea of being refused by the gods didn’t bear thinking about. It would be a like a final damning, a certainty that there was no hope for her in this immortal life. But if she didn’t ask, then she wouldn’t have to hear the lack of an answer. She walked on.

Over the snowed hills, she kept well west of a Nordic ruin, then started to rejoin the road when she saw a large wooden building nearby. She looked north. The College was in view, Winterhold was still an hour or two away. What was this? Last time she’d been this far north, there had been nothing but a desolate mine, draining the fortunes of those who tried to find theirs within it.

Now there were two buildings on either side of the mine entrance. The left one was smaller, and couldn’t be more than one room. But the sigil of Winterhold was painted large on its wall and when the door opened, an orc woman in the fur-thickened armour of the town’s guard walked out into the snow. She wore an open helmet and a scarf rather than the full-faced helmets preferred in other towns, and she looked at Kara with suspicion. Kara tried to make it look like she’d just come down the road rather than walk up from the east, but she realised her tracks, not disappearing fast enough, gave the lie to that.

The building on the right was larger, with two storeys and a large chimney at the far end bellowing dark smoke into the sky. Kara suspected a smelter and perhaps miner’s quarters. She knew the Archmage had made it a project to get Winterhold back on its feet, but she’d had no idea, cut off as she was from the news of Skyrim, that he’d made such a success of it.

“You got business here?” asked the guard.

Kara waved a hand northwards. “In town,” she said. She gestured at the guardpost. “You get much trouble out here?” she asked.

The guard shrugged. “Trolls, mostly. The occasional bandit trying their luck. Fear of magic keeps the rest away. We’re out here mostly to keep Astene—the mine owner—her mind at ease.”

Kara gave a half-smile. She wasn’t sure of the response needed there, couldn’t read whether the guard was dismissive of their duties or respectful of them.

“Best get moving if I want to get out of the cold,” she said.

“Aye,” said the guard. “Good luck to you.”

“And to you,” said Kara. Though it was selfish, she knew she’d need it more than the guard would. She trod northwards again up the road towards Winterhold. Evening was coming on, and though the aurora would probably light her way, she still would have preferred not to be out after dark. No such luxuries for the cursed, either way.

* * *

 

The town of Winterhold, too, had expanded. Kara did not have a clear picture in her mind of what it had looked like before, but she was sure there were now almost twice as many buildings. A stable and a forge were the most prominent additions, but there seemed to be others. A single guard patrolled the street and Kara smiled at them as they passed her.

She was walking up the stairs to the inn—The Frozen Hearth, by the sign—when the door opened. She flinched, expecting someone she knew. But it was just a drunk Nord in miner’s clothes. He slammed the door behind him and frowned at Kara’s height. She had more than a head on him and she sighed. Here was her chance, presented again to her on a plate. She had to wonder whether Vile was having a hand in some of this. Though it wasn’t like him to make her task easier.

“You heading back to the mine?” she asked him.

“Tryin to,” he said.

“Need a hand?” she asked, forcing herself to smile. Before he could answer, she’d already wrapped one of his arms around her shoulders and was heaving him down the steps. At the bottom she turned and started to take him behind the inn, between it and the stables. The guard, thankfully, was walking in the other direction and didn’t see them.

“Much obliged,” the miner was saying.

Kara wondered at the working conditions in the mine. Even with Winterhold’s prosperity, how pleasant could it be under the earth? Carving away into rock, day in and day out. She doubted much of the wealth had trickled down to the workers of the town. Not that she was helping things, she conceded.

Someone had built a house behind the inn. Two storeys, it featured more windows than the other buildings, but all were shuttered. Still, Kara scanned all of them as she pulled the miner behind the stables.

“Where we goin?” he asked. Kara didn’t answer.

It would be best, after the brutality in Riften and the publicity in Windhelm, if Winterhold’s murder had every appearance of an accident. She let go of the miner and whacked him on the back of the head. He fell face-first into the snow and didn’t rise. But it wouldn’t do to have him wake up in a few minutes.

Kara slid down the back wall of the stable and sat in the snow until the falls had completely covered the miner. By that point, night was well advanced and Kara herself was half-buried. When she shook herself free, she wasn’t sure where precisely the miner had fallen. Under the light of the aurora, working the feeling back into her fingers, she kicked around for a few minutes for him.

When she found him, the blood had hardened into his hair and he wasn’t breathing. Perhaps she’d hit him a little harder than was believable for a fall, but she’d be long gone before anybody started asking questions. She covered him up again. It was a patchy job, but the snow was still falling and would finish it for her.

Three cities down and her limbs ached. She couldn’t decide whether she regretted not knowing any names other than Rolff. No, she thought. It was best to keep this distance. Just nameless bodies alongside all the others she’d left behind.

She trudged back onto the street and went up to stand on the bridge to the College. Too late for anyone to be about, which gave her a chance to try something she’d hadn’t done in a while. Not since she was first testing the limits of her curse. She faced west, towards Dawnstar, the cold slicing through her bones. When she closed her eyes, the faces of the dead came to her, so she kept them open.

She let herself topple forward off the bridge. It was going to hurt, but that was the point.


	9. 4E 211: The Mine Owner

Kara was wary coming into Dawnstar. She made herself go cross-country over some rough terrain so she could enter by the road rather than from the coast. What food she had that hadn’t been crushed in her fall from the College bridge she hadn’t eaten anyway. Now it was going rotten. She threw it into the trees for the wolves to bicker over.

It was late morning when she came into town. Having realised she had plenty of the month of Morning Star still left to her, she had travelled much slower than she had to. She also hadn’t wanted to rouse suspicion by entering like she had into Riften, in the quiet hours. This time, her entrance raised no comment from the locals apart from the usual looks at her scars. Her description appeared not to have reached as far as Dawnstar, if anywhere. Maybe it would take longer for the individual holds to connect her crimes, if they ever would.

Kara, realising any information she had about Dawnstar was years out of date, did what any traveller would do: she headed for the inn. The Windpeak Inn had a dozen patrons despite the early hour and a loud argument was going on near the bar. A woman who, from her dress, could only be the Jarl, was standing with her arms folded as a man in miner’s clothes pointed angrily at her.

Kara sidled up to the nearest patron, a young woman sitting with a lute across her lap. A bard, perhaps, trained at the Bards’ College in Solitude.

“What’s going on?” Kara asked.

The woman looked Kara up and down in a way entirely different than what Kara was used to, then said, with evident tiredness, “It’s been dragging along for years now.” She pointed at the arguing man. “Leigelf owns one of the mines in town. His wife used to own the other one, til the Dark Brotherhood killed her. Years ago, now.”

“Him and his wife owned different mines?” Kara asked.

The woman rolled her eyes. “There was a feud,” she said. “Everybody thought that Leigelf paid for the contract on his wife so he could get control of both mines, but the Jarl seized it. Claimed it could produce better for the town instead of just him.”

“And has it?”

The woman hesitated and lowered her voice. “Yes,” she said. “But Brina—the Jarl—was kinda underhanded about the whole thing. Pissed off a lot of people. Leigelf’s claiming she’s trying to take his mine as well.”

“And is she?”

The woman shrugged. “Sneaking around is a little beneath Brina. She was in the Legion, talks a lot about honour. She’s made him a straight offer this time. Leigelf’s not taking it well.”

Kara found she was interested despite herself. She leaned on the wall and watched the people watching the argument, trying to gauge sentiment on either side. She tried not to notice how the bard woman kept looking at her.

“I’m Karita,” said the woman eventually. “You’re, uh, not from around here.”

Kara realised what was going on. She didn’t want to count the years since someone had been interested in her like that. She looked at Karita again with a new eye. They were close to the same age, though Kara had height and weariness on her. Karita had a smooth voice and long fingers, and her red hair was pull clear back from her face. Kara had to cut off her ideas when she remembered her own face.

She pulled her fur hat clear from her head. Karita did a sharp intake of breath and several of the other patrons looked on as well. The argument by the bar, however, did not cease, though Kara thought she saw Jarl Brina edge a glance her way. Kara made a decision she would have considered impossible when she was an adolescent: she sided with the Legionnaire. Or ex-Legionnaire, really. Leigelf would not live to see tomorrow.

Kara stayed in the Windpeak until the argument had petered out. She talked quietly to Karita, who was far from put off by the scars. When Kara mentioned that she had no gold to pay for a drink, Karita brought her a flagon of ale on the house. Kara found herself slipping easily into the role of battered adventurer, and promised herself to tell mostly truths. Not just to preserve her own shredded morals, but also to better keep track of her own tales.

When Karita asked how Kara had lost most of her left ear, she told the truth: it was a dragon. Karita was incredulous, but as the story was told, she became increasingly impressed. In addition, she made a few references to Kara needing a place to stay the night. Kara watched Leigelf leave and told Karita that she’d be back that evening. She pulled her hat back on and followed Leigelf out into the snow.

He’d only made it halfway down to his mine on the west side of town before he realised she was behind him.

“You following me?” he asked.

“I couldn’t help but overhear inside,” she said.

“I’ve heard every damn opinion there is about it by now,” said Leigelf. “You can keep yours to yourself.” He continued stomping towards the mine.

“It’s just,” said Kara, stomping to catch up with him, “I represent someone who’s interested in buying your mine.”

That made Leigelf stop. They were close to the mine entrance and Kara was keenly aware of the miners working the smelter being within listening distance.

“Who?” asked Leigelf. “I’ve been getting a lot of offers.” One of the miners behind him snickered.

“Astene, of Whistling Mine in Winterhold,” said Kara. She remembered the name from when the orc guard at the mine had mentioned it. She was having so few interactions with people that even minor ones, of no importance or weight, were sticking in her mind far longer than they otherwise would.

Leigelf folded his arms. “You look like you’re from Winterhold alright,” he said. “Been hearing good things about what’s been going on out there.”

“We’re proud of it,” said Kara. “But Astene wishes to expand her operations and, hearing of your work, thought this a natural place to start.” Leigelf rubbed at his chin, so Kara pushed on. “Would you let me examine the mine? I will need to report back as fully as possible.”

Leigelf hesitated. “Alright,” he said. “I’ll show you round.”

Kara had expected him to delegate that job to one of his workers, or let her wander the mine alone. If this panned out, Karita might be waiting a while for her mysterious suitor to return. It was a shame, Kara thought, she was looking forward to actually having something close to an alibi.

But there was nowhere to kill Leigelf in his own mine. Everywhere was either too open or too busy, as miners toiled around them, the owner praising the various merits of the place, and his intentions to retire somewhere nice in Cyrodiil. Kara made appropriate noises at his comments and restrained herself from asking questions. If she had, there was a chance she’d reveal her true lack of knowledge regarding mining.

Leigelf detained her for hours. Kara eventually got rid of him by saying she had to send a message to her boss before she could proceed any further with negotiations. She made sure to say, however, that the signs were all very promising. Leigelf beamed and Kara felt her stomach twist. She started looking for excuses to demonise him. He hadn’t seemed abusive towards his workers. Perhaps he hadn’t contained himself very well during his argument with Jarl Brina, but that wasn’t enough. There was the matter of his murdered wife, however. Out of the question to ask about it, of course, but Kara could trick herself into imagining that Leigelf was the one who had ordered the contract and brought the Dark Brotherhood to Dawnstar.

What Kara could say was, “I heard the Dark Brotherhood used to operate in this area. There any truth to that?”

Leigelf’s expression darkened. “Aye,” he said. “There’s an abandoned sanctuary just along the coast.” He gestured across the bay to the east. “We get tourists sometimes, poking around in there. Full of traps, so I hear, and they come limping back to town complaining that we didn’t warn them off. Brina oughta wall the place off.”

“Maybe I’ll have a look,” said Kara, “while I’m waiting for a reply.”

Leigelf shrugged and turned away. “Your crippled limbs, not mine,” he said.

It was late afternoon, but still too early to return to the Windpeak Inn. Kara strolled round the bay, taking note of Leigelf’s house, which he had pointed out to her should she need to speak to him outside of working hours. She kept walking and found herself back on the northern coast, staring out into the Sea of Ghosts.

She stood there for a long time, long enough to see the ice move and crack, long enough to spot some horkers moving way off-shore. She walked towards where Leigelf had said the Dark Brotherhood sanctuary was. It was easily visible, though the doorway was banked in snow. Whatever password had been necessary was now useless as the way stood open. Kara looked down into dark tunnel but found herself uninterested in exploring its depths. Nothing to be found—the Dragonborn had wiped out the Dark Brotherhood years ago.

Kara trod her way back to the Windpeak Inn and Karita. The woman brought her a drink almost as soon as she sat down, which Kara accepted with a sad smile.

“Don’t worry about it,” said Karita. “I got your tab covered.” She sat next to Kara along a bench with her lute again in her lap and plucked absently at the strings. “Place is emptier than usual,” she said. “Probably my father won’t mind if we go somewhere quieter to talk.”

Kara gulped her ale. “You have somewhere in mind?” she asked.

“I have a room downstairs,” said Karita in a low voice. “If that’s alright.”

“That sounds perfect,” said Kara. She finished her drink and followed Karita to the back of the inn and down the stairs. Her father, behind the bar, gave her a look but otherwise made no reaction. Karita lit a candle in her room. It was small, little more than a bed and a sidetable, but it was well-lived in and its occupant obviously took great care of it. A sketch on the wall of a ship breaking through stormy waves made Kara want to cry.

She turned to close the door to give herself time to blink it back down. When she turned around to drop her pack in a corner, Karita was sitting on the bed, taking off her boots.

“It’s been a while,” said Kara. “For me.”

“That’s alright,” said Karita, though Kara wasn’t really listening.

“Just . . . just let me know if I get too rough,” said Kara.

Karita raised her eyebrows. “Actually,” she said, “I kinda—”

Kara picked up Karita under her arms and pressed her against the wall. Their lips met and Kara, for a time, could forget the murder she had to commit later that night, could forget about Clavicus Vile. For a time, she could be an ordinary soul.

* * *

 

She didn’t sleep, later, when Karita did. She stared at the ceiling and tried to gauge how many hours had passed. Enough, she hoped. Kara rose and got into her furs as quietly as she could. She left her pack on the floor. Not that it really served as anything other than a ruse, she noted with disinterest. It might as well be packed with rocks.

There was nobody in the main floor of the inn when she reached the top of the stairs. The fire still glowed orange and she paused by it for a few moments, steeling herself for the northern cold outside. Then she crossed slowly, quietly, to the door and eased herself into the moonlit snow of Dawnstar.

Kara maintained a balance between speed and silence, not looking extravagantly around her in the trite manner of those up to no good. Eyes in front, a veneer of competence and direction. And indeed she headed direct for Leigelf’s house. She trod up the steps and knocked twice on his door. Just next to the forge, the mine owner’s house looked like a smaller replica of other houses in Dawnstar. Perhaps he might need the money from the mine’s sale more than he let on.

From inside there were a series of muffled thumps and curses before the door swung inwards and Leigelf appeared, still pulling a sleeve through his shirt.

“What?” he barked, before recognising Kara. “Oh. What is it?”

“I have had a reply,” said Kara. “I thought you would want to know immediately.”

“Oh!” said Leigelf. His face split into a grin. “This’ll shut up Brina good and proper.” He stretched his head outside and looked around. Kara deliberately didn’t copy the action. “Come in, come in,” he said.

Kara entered and examined the house for any other occupants. When she was sure, and Leigelf had closed the door, Kara flicked out her sword from Oblivion. She gave it a brief swish, but Leigelf, moving away to build up the fire, didn’t see it.

“Well?” he was asking. When he turned to face her, Kara impaled him. He gasped and flailed his arms. Kara let go of her sword and Leigelf fell into a growing pool of his own blood. He took too long to die. Kara summoned her sword again and slashed at his throat. She watched until he was still. Blood dripped from her swordpoint until she dismissed it again. Sending some of Leigelf’s life into Oblivion.

She retraced her steps, still not looking around her, and returned to Karita’s bed. The woman didn’t waken as Kara removed her furs and slipped under the covers, only murmured in her sleep and shifted a little to make room. In the morning, perhaps after lingering a little for breakfast, Kara would head south to Whiterun.


	10. 4E 211: The Brawler

Kara jolted awake. The first surprise was that she’d slept at all. The second was that there was someone thumping on the door. Karita was already swinging her legs out from the bed. Kara joined her and they both threw most of their clothes on. Karita looked at Kara for a moment before opening the door. A man in Imperial Legion armour stood there, at least two guards behind him.

“What is it, Horik?” asked Karita.

“Sorry to wake you so early, Karita,” said Horik. He looked into the room. “But we have to take your . . . friend there along to the jail.”

“What?” said Karita. “Why?”

Karita was thrust back against the wall as the two guards entered. They both had their hands on their swords, though with the room cramped as it was there would have been barely room to swing them.

“Won’t get any trouble from me,” said Kara. One death in town was more than enough.

“Guess you’re smarter than you look,” said Horik.

Kara had to laugh at that. She reached back towards the bed and everybody else tensed. She found her hat and pulled it down over her scalp.

“Time to face the Jarl’s justice,” said one of the guards, shoving her out of the room.

* * *

 

They took what little she had and left her in the cell in a ragged sleeveless prison-issue robe and boots. She’d always wondered how they managed to get them just the same level of ragged every time. The scars up her arms had drawn a few looks from the guards. She hadn’t asked why they’d arrested her, and maybe they’d taken that as an admission of guilt. Nobody said anything, either way. She lay on the bedroll and thought she might at least get a few day’s rest. She’d rather not ruin their cell on her way out, either.

She didn’t know long she stared at the ceiling and drifted in and out of dreams. Eventually she was brought back to her broken reality by the sound of someone calling her name. She turned her head the slightest amount to see Karita, one of the bard’s hands resting on the bars.

“They’re trying to pin Leigelf’s murder on you,” she said, “but I told them you were with me all night. Which is true.” She glared at the guard on duty. “They always try to pin anything bad on the nearest outsider.”

A familiar attitude. If there was a reason for Kara to be held in suspicion in Riften or Winterhold, that would be it. She must have slipped into sleep again, for the next time she looked over, it was Horik standing on the other side of the bars.

“Don’t know how you got Karita to stick up for you,” he said. “But it doesn’t matter. You’re wanted down in Windhelm for a different murder anyway. We’ll get moving tomorrow, do the handover at the border.”

Kara snorted at the dances the holds of Skyrim were forced to do around each other. Clashes of personality and old tensions from the civil war meant that intrusions by guards onto another hold’s land could often be construed as hostile actions, leading to threats of cut-off trade and other sanctions. She returned to her inner torment.

She was lucky, she supposed, that the fall she’d taken from the College bridge in Winterhold hadn’t done any more damage to her face. But there was now a wide scar across her lower back and a smaller one on the back of her head, where a chunk of ice had tried to stop her entry into the dark water. She’d blacked out and woken up who-knew how much later, spewing bits of the Sea of Ghosts from her lungs.

In the morning the guards came and she let them tie her hands in front of her with rough rope. She was led into the cold and south out of town. A few of the townspeople stood on their porches to watch her go, Jarl Brina included. Kara smiled at her—she’d done the woman a favour, after all. She didn’t see Karita anywhere, and felt there might be a blessing in that.

Horik led the party of three guards down through the Pale. The border was somewhere near the Nightgate Inn, Kara thought, but that was too far back east for her. As much as she’d recognised something admirable in Okan-Zaw, she had no desire to spend any time in Windhelm jail, her true identity laid bare for all the city.

She kept silent as they walked, resisting the urge to shiver. At least the snow had stopped falling. Horik kept his hand on his sword the entire way, experienced eyes scanning the road and the wilderness around them. Though what hair he had was grey, Kara reckoned him at being more than passable on the field of battle.

The road trended east after a time and Kara shifted her wrists under the ropes. Tied well enough, but they were no match for her curse. She waited until the south road to Whiterun came into view. The border of that hold were just a short way further, she knew, and Horik would have all sorts of diplomatic trouble on his hands were he to cross that border with three armed guards in tow. There was a Whiterun guard post not too far south, as well.

“Didn’t tie these very well, did you,” said Kara. She pretended like she was trying to wiggle her way free, reaching her fingers back to pick at the knot.

“Keep moving,” said one of the guards, pushing her in the back.

Kara snapped the ropes and ran south. There were shouts and the sound of swords being drawn behind her. With her speed traded away, Kara could only sprint at her regular pace. But with her captors weighed down by armour and mortal limits of endurance, she could leave them well behind.

* * *

 

By the time Kara reached the city of Whiterun, she was cursing Clavicus Vile with every other breath. She stopped in front of the stables and threw up whatever dregs had managed to hang around in her stomach. The guards at the gate looked at each other as she staggered up and she had a momentary flash of fear that her description had reached here too, that she would have to scale the walls, force her way through the gates. Or more troubling, that they simply wouldn’t let her in because of her appearance.

Vile had turned her into a beggar with ropemarks on her wrists, fleeing in rags across the wilds with no place to call home, an increasing amount of people on her tail, and nothing she could claim as her own but a cursed sword.

“What in Oblivion happened to you?” asked one of the guards.

Kara fought back a choking laugh. Her voice seemed raw and cracked. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” she said.

The other guard thumped on the gates. “Get yourself to the Temple of Kynareth,” he said. “They’ll feed you, maybe find you some new clothes.”

“Thanks,” she managed to say. She headed up the path into Whiterun, straight ahead rather than to the left and the temple. She paused at the well and drew up a bucketful, knowing she was drawing looks from all sides. The sun was still high in the sky and many were in the market doing business. She drank deep of the cool water.

A large Nord came up to her. She recognised him, though he seemed not to know her. Sinmir, a Stormcloak sympathiser who’d been lined up for commander of the guard if the rebels had taken the city. She wondered how he’d managed to live for so long with someone else at the helm of the only job he’d ever wanted. Sinmir wore battered iron armour without a helmet, an unnecessary affectation within the city, and had a greataxe slung across his back.

“You need some help there?” he asked, as Kara started to draw up a second bucketful from the well.

“Back off,” said Kara. She hauled the bucket up fast enough that much of the water was spilled, but it was worth it for the look on Sinmir’s face.

“Just trying to help,” he said. “No need to get angry.”

Kara swung to face him, half-full bucket still in hand. “Get angry?” she said. “I wasn’t before, but I’m working towards it now.”

Sinmir had the audacity to grin. The pair of them were the same height. “Anything I can do to deal with that?”

It was at that point Kara knew where this was headed. She wanted to see his blood on the stones and her knuckles went white around the bucket’s edge. “What do you do around here?” she asked, aware there was quite a large audience, including guards. If she was heading towards the bottom, she thought, she might as well dig a little faster.

Sinmir coughed. “I got a room at the Bannered Mare,” he said.

“I ain’t askin where your ratty bed’s at,” she said. “I’m askin what you do. You ain’t in the Companions, else you woulda said Jorrvaskr. You ain’t in the guard, else you’d be in uniform. So tell me, what you wearin that big suit of armour for then?”

A couple of chuckles came from the crowd. Sinmir took a step back from her.

“I’m a warrior,” he said. “I could beat any of them blindfolded. And I won’t stand here and let you—”

“Oh, a warrior,” said Kara, layering the word thick. “And what are you fighting? Other than with your bedsheets of course.”

“You fucking bitch!”

Kara let him hit her. She threw herself down onto the stones beside the well like the blow was a powerful one, like it had any effect on her at all. She found herself being helped up by several hands and had to restrain herself from throwing them off. Dark murmurs were running through the crowd.

“Can’t you see she’s already been through enough?” someone was saying. Kara still had a hand around the edge of the well bucket, though the water had all spilled in her ‘fall’.

“Alright, let’s keep this civil,” said a nearby guard.

“Oh, if he wants to fight, I’ll fight him,” said Kara. She grinned and spat blood in Sinmir’s direction.

“I’m not going to fight you,” he said. The way he looked at the guard made Kara think he’d already had some trouble in that area.

“Oh, you only hit people who aren’t expecting it?” asked Kara. “You already hit me, fight’s started whether you like it or not.” She stepped towards him, raising her free fist in a feint. Then she stuck him in the side of the head with the well bucket. It splintered on his skull and he went down. He didn’t rise. The crowd went quiet and Kara kicked at his head hard enough to make a dent. She’d learnt that her strength let her crush skulls without too much strain. The trick here was to make it look like an argument just gone too far.

She took a few steps back from the body. “He hit me first,” she said. “You all saw.” Before anyone could react, Kara turned and started walking back towards the gate. Before anyone could be sure that he was dead, could determine that she’d hit him much harder than it seemed, she’d be halfway down the hill, running towards Falkreath.


	11. 4E 211: The Jarl

Kara took a wide berth around Riverwood. Even with its small community, it was still too much for her. She needed to conserve her energies for Falkreath. The town had a reputation for being cut off from the rest of Skyrim, a green valley of tranquillity. It had managed to escape the civil war without more than a scratch. Maybe that was the sort of place where nobody would be looking for her yet.

She took a detour to an old bandit haunt she knew of: Pinewatch. She needed new clothes to replace her conspicuous rags, and didn’t want to steal from regular citizens. Thanks to her elaborate detours, it was night by the time she reached the seemingly-innocent cottage. She knew from experience, however, that a bandit hideout lurked in the extensive basement beneath.

There was no sentry outside Pinewatch, so she kicked the door into splinters. She expected someone with a weapon to come charging at her—and she was angry enough to want it—but there was silence. She wandered inside and down to the basement. The secret shelf door hung wide open. Still nobody leaped out at her. Maybe the Jarl had finally got his act together—which seemed unlikely from what she’d heard of Siddgeir. Maybe some ambitious adventurers had come through and gotten lucky.

Kara searched the cottage first. In a cupboard she found a mostly preserved set of black clothes, the sort someone would wear while in mourning. A character began to form in her head, though she still bemoaned her inability to remove her scars or alter her height. She’d have to grow her hair out after this month, if she ever wanted a hope of going unrecognised.

A visiting pilgrim, she thought. With the impression if the not actual presence of wealth. There was also the publicity to consider. She was making a habit of bloody murders. Maybe something more subtle was called for—poison, perhaps. She descended into the bandit hideout, finding a new pack into which she scavenged anything she thought might be useful for her ruse. The entire hideout was unoccupied apart from some runtish skeevers, which scattered at Kara’s presence.

Into the pack went several bottles of ale—the only foodstuffs that hadn’t spoiled—along with a pair of drinking horns. Into her new pockets went every loose septim she could find, and a steel dagger through her belt. There was no alchemy lab anywhere that she could see, but, remembering her apprenticeship at The White Phial, she improvised. Several unlabelled bottles were identifiable by their smell to her as poisons, it only fell to her to strengthen them. Once combined and condensed, she was reasonably sure the mixture would fell a bear, let alone a human. However, instead of poisoning one of her ale bottles, she coated the inside of one of the drinking horns, marking a scratch with her thumb down its side. She cleaned her hands thoroughly and held the horn up to the candlelight. The changed interior of the horn was barely recognisable. Pleased with her work, she returned to cleaning out the hideout.

It took her a long time to find boots that fit her, and they were brown rather than black, but matched the higher-than-average quality of the outfit well enough. Gloves took even longer, but the tattiness around the openings of the pair she found could be hidden by her sleeves. A grey round hat squashed over her scalp. She only wished she had some sort of retinue in order to give herself the final seal of important people: having other people around to pay to do things for you.

Still, she felt secure enough as she wandered into Falkreath, late next morning. None of the guards leapt to arrest her and ship her north or east or both. She went straight, as usual, to the inn: Dead Man’s Drink. The Dragonborn, during her brief retirement, had lived near here. Perhaps her presence still hung heavy over the populace, or gave the townspeople something to connect themselves to other than the graveyard. Problem was, the Dragonborn had done so much adventuring that even the smallest towns of Skyrim could lay a claim to being part of her history.

Kara took a seat at the bar in the near-empty inn and could tell, from the way she was served by the Imperial woman behind the bar, that her attire was having an effect. Perhaps even more than her scars.

“I’ll be right here if there’s anything else you need,” said the bartender after accepting Kara’s gold for her ale.

“Actually,” said Kara, “I was hoping you could enlighten me on a matter regarding the town.”

The bartender leaned on the bar and said, “In Falkreath, if I don’t know it, it’s not worth knowing.”

“Then I’ve come to the right place,” said Kara, smiling. She took a sip of her drink, remembering not to down it all in one go. “Though it’s something of a delicate matter.”

The bartender leaned a little closer. “I count my guests’ discretion above everything else,” she said.

“The matter is this,” said Kara, laying her hands flat on the bar. “I am recently arrived from Cyrodiil, making pilgrimage to my father’s grave in Solitude.”

“My apologies for your loss,” interjected the bartender.

Kara inclined her head in thanks. “However, I had a rather narrow escape from bandits just south of the border. My bodyguard assured me he was the hardiest of sorts, but made himself rather scarce rather quickly. This time, I was hoping for someone a little more . . . disreputable? Perhaps with a criminal past?"

The bartender laughed. “Ask some people, they’d tell you the most disreputable person in town is Jarl Siddgeir.”

Kara had in fact heard that before, but she leaned forward and said, “Is that so?”

“Yes,” said the bartender. “Spends all his time feasting and drinking at any excuse. How he hasn’t emptied the treasury yet nobody’s any idea. No interest in running the hold, treats everyone else in the town like his slave.” Abruptly she leaned back. “At least, that’s what some people say.”

“Of course,” said Kara. She rose from her stool and slid a few gold coins across the bar. “I will return later. If you have a recommendation for a bodyguard, I’ll hear it then. Otherwise, I’d prefer it if you didn’t mention my visit. My family has business interests, you understand.”

“Of course,” said the bartender, sweeping the coins into a pocket. “I’ll find some suitable candidates.”

Kara nodded again, thinking it unbecoming of such a character to speak too often, and exited the inn. She trod quickly to the Jarl’s longhouse. It would fly in the face of the low-profile death she’d promised herself, but if Siddgeir’s reputation was anywhere near reality, she would be doing the town a favour. She was admitted into the longhouse without complaint, though the guard did give her a long look. She found Jarl Siddgeir standing in front of his throne, speaking loudly to his housecarl.

“Very well, but when their emissary comes inform him I want words with him,” he was saying. The housecarl inclined his head and backed away. Siddgeir looked at Kara as she approached. “Well, what is it?” he asked.

“Jarl Siddgeir,” said Kara, doing a short bow. “It is a pleasure to stop in your town, for however short a time.”

“I’m sure it is,” said Siddgeir, lounging back into his throne. Kara stood at the foot of the dais. “And you are?”

Kara smiled and said, “My name is Karita Volskygge, and though I hail from the Imperial City, my father was born in Skyrim. It is a pilgrimage to honour his memory that brings me here.”

“He’s buried here?” asked Siddgeir, sitting straighter at the mention of the Empire’s capital.

“Sadly, no,” said Kara. “His remains rest in Solitude, though I wish he had breathed his last in such a fair town as yours.”

“Don’t we all,” said Siddgeir. He looked at her expectantly.

“I thought, perhaps, my lord,” said Kara, trying not to grind her teeth at the title, “you might honour my father’s memory by drinking from his horn. I am sure his spirit, wherever it flies, will be greatly pleased.”

“Well,” said Siddgeir. Though clearly pleased at the request, he leaned back in his throne and said, “And what would we be drinking?”

“Anything you desire,” said Kara. “I am sure your supplies are much finer than what I have suffered through on the road.”

Siddgeir smoothed his hair back. “I keep a well-stocked cellar, it is true. Wine!” he bellowed. “You have the . . . horn?”

Kara nodded and retrieved the poisoned horn from her pack. She passed it to the Jarl as a servant appeared with a bottle. Kara held onto her own horn and watched as the wine was poured. Siddgeir seemed to hesitate a moment before directing the servant to pour into Kara’s horn also. The pair raised their drinking vessels.

“To your father,” said the Jarl with a smirk. They both drank down their horns in one draught. Kara licked her lips as she watched a frown edge onto Siddgeir’s face.

“You do my family a great honour, Jarl Siddgeir,” said Kara. “I will be sure to mention it to them, and my friends, upon my return to the Imperial City.”

“Yes, yes,” said Siddgeir, swallowing. “You do that.” He tossed the horn towards her and she caught it in her free hand. She examined its interior—not a drop of wine remained. She tucked both horns back in her pack. Siddgeir frowned and rubbed at his throat.

“If my lord is feeling unwell,” said Kara, “perhaps I should take my leave.”

Siddgeir waved a hand towards the door, starting to cough. When Kara looked back at the door, his face was pale and he was yelling for water. She stepped into the street and headed west. Too many people had seen her, spoken to her, but she thought it unlikely they would connect her to a fur-clad traveller in Dawnstar, or a crazed ragged brawler in Whiterun, if they heard tell of such things.

As she strode out of Falkreath, Kara wondered if perhaps she was positioning herself too highly. The murders in Riften and Winterhold had been of convenience, as she sought to move on as soon as possible. In Windhelm and Whiterun she had killed out of personal taste, taking a disliking to individuals who ways jolted against her own. But in Dawnstar and now in Falkreath, she had killed in order to improve the towns. Judgement calls made on very little information—but then she had no time to conduct thorough investigations. If there was some twisted way she could take Clavicus Vile’s orders and turn them to the advantage of the people, then that was what she would do. It would help her sleep easier if she told herself so, anyway. Somewhat consoled as to her mission, she headed for Markarth.


	12. 4E 211: The Overseer

Kara’s disguise was still more or less intact by the time she reached Markarth. Though she’d drunk all of her ale on the way, her septim supplies were still high enough to let her throw them around and give the impression of wealth, and her clothes were worn from the road but otherwise good enough. After a night spent in a cleft of rock somewhere in the Reach, she’d made a point of washing both herself and the clothes in an isolated pool. She supposed she hadn’t been immersed in water since her dive off the College bridge.

News of Jarl Siddgeir’s death, thanks to her delays, reached Markarth ahead of her. It was all anybody could talk about in the Silver-Blood Inn, as Kara drank ale and watched the crowds. Early afternoon, but the place still bustled. Whenever someone tried to involve her, she shook her head and wondered aloud what Skyrim was coming to if the Jarls could just drop like flies. It always brought noises of agreement—people loved to think that things used to be better. She didn’t even get a chance to use her Karita Volskygge alias.

With no clear candidates emerging, Kara went for a stroll to the lower portions of the city. In her experience, it was the poorest who would have the most complete grasp of where the grievances laid, and would be opener about it. She ambled past some of the smelters, who looked at her with suspicion. A trio of male Bretons, their clothes were ragged and she noticed thick scabs under their clothes.

“This ain’t a place for your type,” said one.

“I am in Markarth for such a short time,” said Kara, “that I wished to see as much of it as possible. Is there anything I should know?”

Another smelter grunted. “They don’t like us talking to people when we work,” he said.

“If we slow down, Mulush takes the difference out of our hide,” said the third.

“Mulush?” asked Kara. “Your boss?”

“The overseer,” said the first smelter. “He’s a damn tyrant. Better than he used to be, but they still pay us next to nothing. We get beaten if we make a mistake.”

“What about the Jarl?” asked Kara.

The smelters snorted. The third said, “Our gentle rulers’d be better off joining that one down in Falkreath.”

Kara nodded. She stepped back and watched the smelters work for a time. She wasn’t about to wander into Understone Keep and murder another Jarl. There was no way her trick with the horn would work again, anyway. But this overseer, Mulush, sounded like a more worthy target.

“Maybe I’ll have a word with this overseer of yours,” she said.

“We’re heard that before,” said the first smelter. “Nothing ever changes.”

“He lives up there,” said the third smelter. He pointed up the hill, to the south-west corner of the city. A narrow path vanished behind stone. Kara trod it and soon came to a squat house, possibly carved straight out of the mountain. She knocked, but there was no answer. She waited and looked around. The place was tucked almost out of sight. The metal doors were strong, but one of them yielded to her kick.

She slipped inside and pulled the door behind her as closed as she could. She quickly surveyed the small but snug living quarters. Nobody home. She was sure the smelters would have been consigned to a much more frugal existence. Two beds, though only one looked recently slept in. With the damage done to the door, Kara figured it would best to make this look like a robbery. She ransacked every cupboard and drawer, leaving clothes and plates strewn across the floor. She stuffed every septim she could find in her pack, along with some silver ore, ingots, and a few of the more pricey alchemical ingredients. Most of it she imagined she’d dump when she was out of the city. There was a locked chest under the bed and she snapped open the lock with her fingers.

Inside, alongside several more pouches of gold, she discovered a silver bowl overflowing with rubies and emeralds. Mulush, it seemed, was a hoarder. She was running them through her fingers when she heard a soft curse from outside. She flattened herself behind the side of a cupboard and waited.

“What in Oblivion,” Mulush was saying as he saw the damage. “When I find the fucking pink-skins who did this I’ll snap their legs and dump them in the river.”

“Still here, Mulush,” said Kara, stepping from her hiding place. The overseer was a tall orc, his hair shaved at the sides. He held an iron mace in his hand and came at her with it. Kara dodged the blow and threw Mulush across the room. He crashed into a cupboard, splintering the doors, losing his grip on his weapon. Kara picked him up with one hand and threw him into the bed. His feet caught on the open chest and his behind landed in the gems.

To her surprise, he got to his feet before she could reach him. Shaky, but nevertheless vertical. He pulled a dagger from his belt and threw it at her. It struck her blade first in the left shoulder. Kara grunted and took a step back. Mulush punched her in the face twice. Her hat fell off and it was then that another voice came from the entrance.

“What did you do to your door, brother?” it said. Kara turned to see a female orc entering the house. This one was dressed in steel armour with a matching mace at her hip, which she drew upon seeing Kara.

“Come in, Urzoga,” said Mulush. “Caught myself a robber.”

One death, Kara promised herself. That was all Clavicus Vile had asked for and that was all he was going to get. As Urzoga advanced across the room, Kara pulled the dagger from her shoulder, grabbed Mulush by the collar and slashed open his throat. She used too much force and by the time his body hit the ground, his head was hanging mostly loose from his shoulders.

Urzoga broke into a charge for the last few steps. “I’m gonna open you up for that!” she bellowed. Kara doubted a trip to Cidhna Mine would be as easy to escape from as Dawnstar had been. Nobody escapes Cidhna Mine, was the saying—although the Dragonborn had. Not that it looked like Urzoga had any intention of taking Kara’s surrender.

Kara dropped the dagger and summoned her sword to meet Urzoga’s mace. She cursed internally. No way to get out of this without leaving a trail as wide as a caravan through uncut snow. She wasn’t going to kill Urzoga, which meant her presence would be spoken of. As someone with the same description as a certain traveller who’d called on Jarl Siddgeir shortly before his death. She parried a few of the orc’s attacks before deciding she had better make herself scarce.

As Urzoga pressed down with all her considerable might against Kara’s blade, Kara pivoted right and dismissed her sword. The vanishing resistance sent Urzoga to the floor, where Kara toppled a cupboard on top of her. She saw it wouldn’t be long before the orc could free herself and strode quickly for the exit, heedless of the blood that stained her front.

“I’ve seen your face!” Urzoga yelled after her. “There won’t be nowhere for you to hide!”

Kara believed her. She didn’t look at the smelters as she passed them. A guard tried to ask her about the blood but she pushed on and was jogging away from the city before anyone could get a hold of her. She had minutes, at best, before a pursuit was in place. Before the holds starting pooling their resources to come after the one-woman crime wave that she’d begun. She had a moment’s pang at what Karita, whose name she’d stolen for a brief alias, would think of her when she heard. Whether she would face punishment for unknowingly covering up the murder in Dawnstar. If she had time, Kara promised herself she’d head back there and confess, clear Karita of all charges.

For now, however, she had her second-last city to deal with: Morthal.


	13. 4E 211: The Guard

Kara managed to keep ahead of her pursuers on her way to Morthal. Often they were close enough for her to hear the shouts of the guards and the howls of the dogs. She cut across country until she reached the River Hjaal. She followed it down, hoping the running water would destroy her scent. She realised she’d left her pack of stolen goods back in the house they belonged in—not that it mattered. More often than not she let the current sweep her downstream faster than she could run, and she grew steadily more and more bruised from the rocks.

Not far from Morthal, she came across a waterfall and paused on its precipice. Steadying herself against the flow, she looked downstream at the stone bridge that spanned the water. An Imperial patrol was crossing it, four uniformed figures looking bored and tired. She dropped into a crouch as she watched them. No doubt on patrol from Fort Snowhawk, just to the north-west. Kara remembered the aborted assault she’d fought with the Stormcloaks, trying to wrest the fort from Imperial hands. It had been towards, in retrospect, the turning point of the war, just before they had begun to be pushed out of Skyrim’s west, back to their loyalist strongholds. Just before the Dragonborn had joined the fight against them.

Unfortunately, the last Legionnaire in the line noticed her and informed the others. They all halted. One of them pointed at her. The noise of the falls prevented her from hearing them. One of them was putting an arrow to their bow. Kara supposed her description had gotten ahead of her. It was about time, really.

“Citizen!” one of the Legionnaires called. “You are wanted for crimes against Skyrim and her people! Step down and come quietly or we will be forced to move against you!”

Kara leapt from the falls. They were no higher than a two-storey house, but the jolt at the bottom still shook through her bones. She kept her mouth closed and stayed underwater, urging herself forward with powerful kicks. She wondered if the water was clear enough for the soldiers to see her position.

She kept swimming and stayed with the river as it slowed, turning right and coming into the marsh that stretched north from Morthal. The taste got too much for her and she surfaced, dragging herself to the nearest solid ground. She cleared her lungs of the foul water and looked around. There were some distant shouts, but no guards or soldiers were in sight. She knew that she didn’t have long, that from now on all hours would be spent looking over her shoulder. Just to the east she could see the bridge that connected Morthal to its lumberyard. She took a few deep breaths, then slid back into the water.

Kara knew she’d stink for a long time, but there was no other way into Morthal. She swam and saw the shadow of the bridge above her. After a short distance, she kicked herself to the right and came up a metre from the end of the last boardwalk. An adolescent girl sitting with her legs hanging over the edge uttered a small gasp and shuffled back, a fire spell forming in her hand.

To her astonishment, as she cleared her lungs, Kara recognised her. It was Agni, Falion’s apprentice, who had been present when the mage had cured Serana of her vampirism. Only a year ago, though it seemed yet another lifetime had passed. And so many stretched before her that Kara wanted to stop treading water and let herself sink to the silt.

“Wait!” she said. Agni waited, though the spell in her hand didn’t tremble. Kara scanned the boardwalks for guards or others, but couldn’t see any.

“You’re the one they’re all looking for,” said Agni.

“We’ve met,” said Kara. Agni frowned, so Kara hurried on. “Last year. I came through with my friend. Your . . . Falion cured her of something she had. You told me about all the new spells you were learning.”

Agni rolled her eyes. “I’m not an idiot. I know your friend was a vampire.” She frowned. “You didn’t take your helmet off. Because of those?” she asked, pointed with her unfired hand at Kara’s scars. Kara nodded as much as she could in the water.

“Where is everybody?” she asked.

“Some soldiers came and talked to the Jarl,” said Agni. “They think you’re hiding in the swamp. They ordered everybody inside, but I snuck out. I’m not afraid of you.”

Kara swam over so she could grip onto the boardwalk and rest her tired legs. Agni looked at her for a moment before dismissing her spell.

“They said you murdered a lot of people,” she said.

“That’s true,” said Kara.

“Aren’t you in the Dawnguard?” Agni asked. “Were they vampires?”

Kara thought about lying, but remember her earlier conviction. The Dawnguard didn’t deserve an association with her destroying their reputation.

“No,” she said. “I’m not with them anymore. Not for a long time.”

Agni frowned. “Then why did you kill them?”

Kara blew water out of her nostrils. “If you’re not shouting for the guards, then I’m climbing up.” She hauled herself out to lie on her back on the boardwalk. Agni crouched nearby, looking around nervously. “Where’s your master?” Kara asked.

“Helping with the search,” said Agni. “I think he just doesn’t want them to find his secret summoning place out in the swamp. How did you hold your breath so long? Are you a mage?”

To date, Serana was still the only person Kara had told of her curse. That avenue for conversation now closed off with the ex-vampire’s disappearance, she longed to relieve herself of her burdens. Still, Agni was too young, with too much ahead of her. Even if she didn’t seem too bothered by Kara’s crimes. Kara wondered exactly what sort of thing Falion was teaching her.

“No,” said Kara. “I took a potion of waterbreathing.”

Agni was toying with a fire spell again. “You’re lying,” she said. “But I don’t mind. Do you want to come inside? Even though you stink.”

Kara let herself laugh. “Sorry,” she said. “Are you sure? They’ll arrest you too if they find me.”

Agni shrugged. “They won’t find you,” she said. “Falion’s got a whole bunch of hidden cupboards where he keeps his secret supplies. You can hide in there.”

Kara heaved herself upright and Agni led her to the nearest house along the boardwalk, looking around before letting them inside. The interior was more or less as Kara remembered it, crowded with magical artifacts, alchemical and enchanting supplies, one bed at each end of the house with the hearth in the centre. Agni built up the fire with her spell and told Kara to sit down on a bench she cleared some scrolls off. Kara did so, her weariness catching up with her. And she still had to find someone to kill in Morthal. Certainly she had to keep Agni and Falion out of that, given what they’d done for Serana.

“I can’t stay here,” she said.

“I figured,” said Agni. She was levitating a soul gem back from one hand to another. “Where are you going?”

“Better you don’t know,” said Kara. She stood up. There hadn’t even been time for her clothes to dry.

“Shouldn’t someone?” asked Agni. “If you’re going alone, somebody should know where. Otherwise you could fall down a hole and nobody would know where to come and get you out. I won’t tell anyone.”

A kid’s story, Kara thought. She didn’t think Agni believed the advice herself. Still, she had been locked inside herself for so long. She ran her hand over her scars.

“Solitude,” she said.

“See, that wasn’t so hard,” said Agni. “You’re not lying this time, either. I can tell.”

“How?” asked Kara.

Agni shrugged. “I don’t know. I just can.” She looked at her hands, the soul gem clattering to the floor. Kara flinched. “Falion lies to me about the College of Winterhold,” said Agni. “Do you know why he would do that?”

Kara didn’t know if Falion had ever had anything to do with the College. Her past acquaintance the Archmage would be the person to ask, of course, if she wasn’t wanted in his city for murder.

“Maybe he doesn’t want you to leave him,” she said.

“But he complains about me all the time,” said Agni.

Kara smiled. “Sometimes we do that about people, even when we care about them.”

Agni didn’t look convinced, though she levitated the soul gem back up to her hand. “Are you going to kill someone here?” she asked.

Kara looked at her for a long time. “Yes,” she said.

“There’s a guard here,” Agni said. “He’s name’s Benor. He didn’t go with the others into the swamp. Volunteered to guard the longhouse like it made him more of a hero.”

“You want me to kill him?” asked Kara. “Why?”

Agni floated the soul gem in front of her eyes. She frowned, her eyebrow twitching, and the gem was crushed into dust. “He hits me when nobody’s looking,” she said. “He knows nobody will believe me because nobody here likes us. Me and Falion.”

Kara headed for the door. Finally, some fury that could be called righteous. If only there were some other murderers floating around that she could pit herself against. With her hand against the wood, she turned back.

“If anyone asks . . .” she said.

“You’ll do it?” asked Agni.

“Yes,” said Kara.

Agni nodded. “Then I never saw you.”

Kara suppressed a grin as she stepped back onto the boardwalk. Agni would go far. Kara trod along the wooden boards through the silent town, shaking her sleeves in a futile attempt to dry them. She came onto solid ground almost directly opposite the Jarl’s longhouse. A Nord figure in guard armour sat on its steps, picking at his teeth. He didn’t leap up until Kara coughed and flicked her sword into her hand.

“You!” Benor exclaimed. “You’re the one they’re all looking for.” He drew an iron battleaxe. “Well, you won’t get past me. I’m the best warrior in Morthal, and that’s no boast.” He grinned and took steps towards her. “They say you’re a murderer.”

“It’s true,” said Kara. “I’ve killed enough men like you to fill this town a dozen times over.”

“Well I say you’re a milk-drinker!” said Benor. “Now let’s see what you got!”

He came at her with a wide swing. She ducked and came up with her sword in his gut. He groaned and fell to his knees. Kara tipped him over with her foot. Benor gurgled and spluttered. Kara lifted her sword for another blow when a “Wait!” came from her right. She looked back down the boardwalk to see Agni coming towards them.

“The fuck are you doing?” asked Kara.

“I wanted to be sure,” said the young mage. “Let me have the sword.”

Kara understood where this was going and took a step back. “I can’t,” she said.

Agni glared at her. “Fine then,” she said. She levitated Benor’s greataxe out of his hand until the blade was a metre over his throat. Benor looked at her with naked fear in his eyes. Agni released the spell.

“Go,” said Agni. “I’ll tell them you went east.” Kara didn’t move. Agni looked at her with teeth bared. “Or would you rather I explain this to the Jarl? Go!”

Kara dismissed her sword—which raised Agni’s eyebrows—and started running north. At the bridge she paused and looked back. Agni was crouched by the body, levitating Benor’s axe back to beside his corpse. Kara kept running, taking a sharp left as soon as she was over the bridge. Into the marsh, under the water if she heard the slightest sound of a voice. Onwards to her final city: Solitude.


	14. 4E 211: The Executioner

Kara spent four days getting through the swamps between Morthal and Solitude. The capital of Skyrim, poised on its overhang, taunted her with its presence as she dodged guards and soldiers. She spent hours at a time in the foul filth of the swamp, sometimes emerging only to heave up the dark water before vanishing again. She felt her insides would never be clean again—let alone her outsides. Her clothes were fast becoming what to anybody else would be a serious health hazard. Her boots had long ago been lost to the pull of the swamp.

She lay with eyes closed, clinging to the silt, and counted the days. With her efficient killings, her frantic running, she had ten days left in which to kill someone inside the walls of Solitude. She opened her eyes to darkness and broke the surface. Night had fallen over the swamp and for once, she could hear no shouts of guards or howls of dogs. She cleared her lungs and shambled north-west.

She washed herself in the bay but knew that she’d need something harsher if the stink of the swamp was ever going to leave her. There was a more immediate problem: how was she going to get inside the city? Any disguise now would be a waste—she must be top of every wanted list in Skyrim by now, her description circulated to every city. She looked up at the arch, with its long shadows and sheer rock. Nobody had ever scaled it, as far as she knew. Surely such a feat would be known. From there, she could hop over the wall into the grounds of the Blue Palace, quickly off some guard or servant, then drop back down the fastest way, right into the bay again. And be done for the month.

Drying her hands, Kara approached the end of the arch where it burst from the coast. She supposed it would be easier if she had some rope—or if the sun was up. But she couldn’t risk be spotted from across at the docks. She circled the base, looking for a good place to start. She’d have to end the climb on the outside, of course, but that didn’t mean the best place to start was directly below.

The spot she found was on the north face. The wind came in off the Sea of Ghosts, washing through to her bones. At least her clothes would dry quicker. She put her foot on a ledge and, stretching her arm up, began to climb.

Her increased strength allowed her to haul herself up by her arms, to continue the ascent in places where others would be stymied. Still, she paused after every reach to examine where the next would be. Ten days, she told herself. Plenty of time. Her strength, however, soon presented itself as a problem. Perhaps five metres up, as she reached with her left hand to the next ledge in the rock, it came away in her hand. She cursed and watched the piece of rock fall to the dirt below.

Hanging on by her right hand, she summoned her sword into her left and drove it into the rock. She praised every daedra she could think of who could have been involved in its creation. It was, however, just like her hand: too strong. The sword began sliding, cutting down through the rock. Kara cursed again and let go.

She fell. The pain spiked through her back and her head. New scars for her collection. She rose without blacking out, this time. She looked up at the arch and sighed. One other way into Solitude, then, without turning it into a massacre.

Kara swam across the bay. She was spotted when she was more than halfway across, her wake signalling her presence as the moonlight rippled in the water. A guard with a torch was waiting for her when she pulled herself onto the docks.

“I’d like to surrender,” she said.

* * *

 

Again, they took everything from her. The crowds had formed by the time the guard marched her through the gates of Solitude. Brought from their beds by the news of the captured murderer. They locked her in the dungeon of Castle Dour and told her they had to wait, field messages from the other holds, to see who would have the honour of executing her.

On her first day in the dungeon, someone came to visit. A farmer, from his look, though she had never seen him before. He pushed a piece of paper through the bars and hurried away. Kara unfolded it before the guards could get to it. Of course, she thought. A message from her master. She scratched the horned symbol on the wall and burned the message with her candle. The symbol cracked and moved, taking on the eternal smile of Clavicus Vile.

“You’ve done so well,” he said.

“I didn’t do it for you,” hissed Kara, looking around for guards. None of them seemed to have noticed the face of a daedric prince in her cell.

“No, you did it for yourself,” said Vile. “For fear and hatred and joy. Tell me, how many of them did you enjoy?”

Kara was silent.

“I thought as much,” said Vile. “Different to fighting your usual fare, isn’t it? A new thrill. Like flexing a muscle you didn’t know you had.”

“No,” said Kara, but she didn’t sound convincing even to herself.

“Your work is extraordinary,” said Vile. “The beggar in Riften, oh, that was raw, you were still finding your feet. By Windhelm you were already in your element. A character, a connection. Leaping yourself through loops of logic. Winterhold . . . subtle. I’ll admit it didn’t thrill me, but I admired the pace of it. But Dawnstar, there you came fully into your own. The way you used that bard was delicious.”

Kara jabbed a finger at the scratched face. “Don’t you dare,” she said.

“Oh, but it was you who dared,” said Vile. “I can’t imagine her reputation is faring well after your little visit. Whiterun, though, Whiterun. Coarse, brutal, and utterly public. I loved it. And so contrasted with Falkreath! Dengeir is Jarl again now, you know. Much more a sympathiser of your old comrades the Stormcloaks.”

Kara must have shown some reaction to that, for Vile chuckled.

“Were you not aware?” he asked. “Can’t imagine his attitudes will mix well with the other Jarls. I can only congratulate you on your sowing of chaos. Onwards to Markarth, then, where you showed such restraint. Although the net began to tighten because of it, hmm?”

“I made it here, didn’t I?” snarled Kara. The strength went from her legs and she sat on the bedroll.

“That you did, Kara, that you did,” said Vile. He paused. “You know, I really shouldn’t count Morthal. That little witch did strike the final blow, after all. But I so enjoyed it, I’ll let it slide.”

“You’re so gracious,” said Kara.

“Now, now, no need to be bitter,” said Vile. “The deal was your choice, remember? Besides, you still have one kill left to make. Will you break down your bars and—but no, another guard would be dull, dull! No, I won’t speculate. No matter how much I enjoy it. Remember Kara, nine days left of Morning Star. And you’ve got nowhere to go.”

The face stopped moving, though the smile remained where it had not been before. Kara dug at the eyes with her thumbnail and scratched away the teeth. She slept with her back to it.

* * *

 

It was three days before someone came to her. She was sitting crosslegged on her bedroll when a black-bearded man in guard armour came to the bars, who Kara recognised by reputation from her civil war days: Captain Aldis.

“They’re still arguin over what to do with you,” he said. “But it ain’t lookin good, I can tell you that.”

“What d’you want, Aldis?” she asked.

He started. “How do you know my name?” he asked.

“You’re fuckin famous,” she said. “Answer the question.”

Aldis coughed and leaned closer to the bars. “They sent me to ask if you want to confess to anythin more.”

“More’n what?” asked Kara.

“They got you for the orc in Markarth, the guard in Morthal, and the fellas over in Whiterun and Windhelm,” said Aldis. “Horik is here, wants you for something in Dawnstar. He don’t seem to have a whole lot of proof, though. There’s a steward here from Falkreath, says you killed the old Jarl, though he don’t seem real cut up about it.”

“They’re both right,” said Kara.

Aldis’ eyebrows went up. “Can’t say as I believe it. You been movin round so fast, seems like it can’t’ve been just you.”

Kara grinned wide at him, not caring about her similarity to Clavicus Vile. “You better get to believin,” she said.

Aldis sighed. “Thought these were supposed to be better times,” he said. “Dragonborn killed Alduin. War’s over. Someone gave it to those vampires.” He shook his head. “Supposed to have some peace and quiet.”

“I’m sorry,” said Kara.

Aldis looked surprised. “Can’t say as that’s goin to make it any easier for you,” he said.

Kara nodded and came over to the bars. “There’s more,” she said. “A miner in Winterhold, and a beggar in Riften.”

“Can’t say as I’ve heard about those,” said Aldis.

“Can’t say as you would,” said Kara, “if I hadn’t told you. Them Jarls arguing about their jurisdictions don’t care the people at the bottom.”

“Like you?” said Aldis.

“Not always,” said Kara. “Just mostly.”

Aldis scratched at his chin. “Well,” he said. “I’ll pass all this on.” He half-turned away, before pausing. “Does that mean you killed someone in every hold capital? Except this one?”

“Yes,” said Kara.

“It’s all over now,” said Aldis. “Get some rest, with all that running around you’ve been doin.”

Not likely, Kara thought as he left. Not with her unfinished business still hanging over her.

There were only two days left of Morning Star left when someone next came to Kara. It was late, but she had given up on sleep and taken to pacing the limits of her cell. The still face of Clavicus Vile had been completely hacked away days ago. It was a Nord in fine clothes who appeared on the other side of the bars. He stunk like the Blue Palace. Kara still stunk like the swamp. The guards had thrown a few buckets of water on her, to no avail. Now they just complained.

“I am the steward here,” said the man. “Falk Firebeard.”

“Well?” asked Kara.

“Dawnstar and Markarth fought hard to have you themselves, but . . . we’ve decided to execute you here.”

“When?” asked Kara, pressing close to the bars. Falk stepped back, his nose wrinkling.

“Tomorrow,” he said. “Early.”

Kara gripped to the bars, feeling that she would collapse without their support.

“I’ll be there,” she said. She couldn’t summon a smile.

* * *

 

They came for her just before dawn and she could swear that, despite her efforts to erase him, Vile’s image on the wall was still grinning at her. She let her wrists and ankles be shackled and was led out of the dungeon. A crowd had already formed as she was led towards the block, positioned right near the door out of the city. Someone threw a rock at her and a guard waded into the swarm to find the culprit and berate them for causing possible injury to the esteemed guards of Haafingar.

The executioner, with his long axe and black mask, was waiting by the block. Kara was stood on the other side. At the top of the stairs where she’d come down from Castle Dour she could see someone who had to be High Queen Elisif, her steward beside her. Captain Aldis climbed the platform and the executioner stepped back. Aldis read from a scroll.

“You have committed eight counts of murder by various means and numerous other counts of assault and theft,” he said. “The sentence is death. Do you have anything to say before it is carried out?”

Kara shook her head. She spotted Horik from Dawnstar and Urzoga from Markarth in the crowd. She didn’t want to keep looking in case she spotted Karita. She remembered her trip to Helgen—not the battle where she had fought alongside a ragtag group against the Thalmor trying to open an Oblivion gate, where she had plunged through and made her fatal bargain with Clavicus Vile—but her first visit. Captured with Ulfric and a ragged Breton who would go on to become the Dragonborn.

She remember the way the Dragonborn’s head had been lowered to the block. She remembered the executioner raising his arms. She remembered how Alduin’s arrival had denied her own chance to face the axe.

“Guards, prepare the prisoner,” said Aldis. He stepped back, but remained on the platform. Two guards grabbed Kara from behind and brought her to the block. They forced her to her knees and pushed her upper body forward so her neck was on the block.

Now she was here, she realised she was uncertain what would happen. Decapitation had been beyond her means, back when she was trialling her various methods of suicide. She had never been able to break a bone, however. Would the axe stop at her neck? Or was this, finally, the way to break from Vile’s curse? But as the guards stepped away and the executioner stepped forward, Kara felt a primal fear return. An instinct she’d crushed, worn down with repeated assaults on her cursed body. A fear of death.

She heard rather than saw the axe coming down. No god appearing from the sky to save her. And she denied the demon his chance to do the same. She slipped to the side and placed the chain between her wrists where her neck had been. The blade cut through them with a sharp clink of metal against metal. She rose, and kicked the executioner away, taking up his axe.

Kara swung the weapon in a wide arc, scattering the guards who were coming at her from multiple directions. A superior reach that could never last. Already she could see other guards putting arrows to their bows. Urzoga was pushing her way to the front of the hysteric and half-fleeing crowd, her hand going for her mace. Kara swung hard at the executioner. His own blade carved halfway through his side and Kara left it there. She reached down, snapped her ankle manacles, then jumped off the platform.

The crowd fell into chaos. Screaming and shouting ruled as people ran in every direction. The doors out of Solitude cracked open as some fled that way. Kara headed in the same direction. Once she was clear of the city, she started to run. The bodies around her soon faded away as her pursuers became more organised. Two arrows took her in the back, more falling around her. She kept running.

Where the hill flattened out she paused and tore off her manacles. She could see Urzoga at the front of the group after her, outdistancing most of the guards. The orc woman let out a defiant yell as she ran. Kara realised Clavicus Vile had been right. She had nowhere to go. In every direction were people who wanted to hunt her, kill her, lock her up. Nowhere to run to. She ran anyway.


	15. 4E 212: The Culling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it says 'Major Character Death' in the tags, but I still feel there ought to be an extra warning here. The title of this chapter certainly isn't metaphorical, is what I'm saying. If any of you are fond of these characters, I can only apologise. This was written about a year and a half ago; for what it's worth I probably wouldn't write it like this again if I had a do-over.

After her flight from Solitude, Kara spent the year dreaming of Serana’s face. Really, any face that wasn’t plotting her end would have been nice. She ran and kept running. She thought hiding in a cave or ruin would be a bright idea, until the guards almost cornered her at the deepest point and she had to stumble, bleeding again, back to the surface. It was getting harder not to kill those after her.

She didn’t sleep for weeks at a time. The world often seemed to move past her in great jolts without her noticing. Once she woke up in a Dwemer ruin with no memory of going inside. Twice she attempted paths out of Skyrim and always found Barbas sitting in her way. Panting and drooling like there was no tomorrow.

“Our master insists that you remain within Skyrim’s borders,” he said. The second time she saw him she threw a small tree at him, but he scampered away.

She used every bolthole in the province to its utmost. It wasn’t always the same group after her, she knew, but there was always someone. Words didn’t escape her throat for months, sometimes. She ate berries from bushes and stole burned skeever from bandits. The arrival of the year four hundred and twelve of the fourth era found Kara dozing in a graveyard somewhere west of Whiterun. She didn’t know what it was called, but someone had ransacked its ancient tombs long before her arrival.

Clavicus Vile appeared out of the night in his dark cloak and gave no indication that he remembered their argument from the previous year. Or that he’d noticed the hellish time she’d had because of it.

“Did you ever agree with the Dawnguard?” he asked, staring up at the stars.

Kara leaning against a pillar of stone, dressed in a mix of studded armour and a black robe held together by perseverance, looked with exhaustion at his smiling face.

“Sure,” she said, knowing there was no point asking why he wanted to know, or complaining about the year she’d had. “Vampires ain’t all bad, but the Volkihar were. Trying to block out the sun.”

Vile chuckled. “Yes,” he said. “Do you recall a similar group—to the Dawnguard, I mean—called the Silver Hand?”

Kara frowned. “Werewolf hunters?” she asked. Vile nodded. “Didn’t they get wiped out years back, during the war?”

“Indeed,” said Vile. “Our mutual friend the Dovahkiin had a hand in that, you may recall. Do you also recall an attack by a certain group upon Jorrvaskr?”

Kara stretched her mind back. Around that time she’d been running in the wilderness with the Stormcloaks, and any news had taken a while to reach them. But, there was something.

“The old Harbinger was killed,” she said. “Kodlak Whitemane. He’d been leading the Companions for years. I don’t know who’s got the job now.”

Vile waved a hand and looked out across the plains of Whiterun. “The Dovahkiin held the position for a short while. A ridiculous painted woman leads them now. Aela the Huntress, she calls herself.”

Kara knew the name. A handful of the Companions were known by reputation across Skyrim. Aela was one. The brothers Farkas and Vilkas, also. Vignar Gray-Mane, though he was long retired. There must be others by now, Kara reasoned, new recruits making a name for themselves with their deeds. She picked at the dirt caked between her fingers. Warriors known for something other than murder.

“Were you aware,” said Vile, “that the group responsible for the old leader’s death were the very same Silver Hand?”

“What?” said Kara. “The Companions are werewolves? That doesn’t make any sense. How would they keep that hidden?”

“Not all of them,” said Vile. “Regardless, it just so happens I have been invited on a hunt. Hircine is hosting, naturally. I feel as though the hunt could do with some surprise competition. Send the Companions to Oblivion for me.”

Kara stood, meeting the daedric prince’s eyes. He seemed to know what she was going to say.

“You will fight dragons in the ice of the Forgotten Vale and tangle with vampire lords, but will not fight a few jumped-up mercenaries?” he asked.

“They’re the best warriors in Skyrim!” she said.

Vile snorted. “Hardly,” he said. “There is a Redguard woman camped in the Rift who is the best I have seen in some time. Has a ludicrous habit of using only ebony gear. There is an Argonian working in the guard up in Winterhold who can do amazing things with his fists. And there is a new arena opened beneath Windhelm which is drawing all sorts of interesting contenders.”

“Still,” said Kara, “you can’t expect me to—”

“I do,” said Vile. “The Companions are on the decline. You will eliminate them, then come to my shrine. There is something far more important brewing than mere hunting trips.” He disappeared.

Kara looked around the small ruin with its raided graves. Time to move on again, then. She didn’t know if anyone was still actively on her trail, but they would certainly recognise her if she wandered into Whiterun and asked the shortest way to Jorrvaskr. There was another way, she recalled. The hall of the Companions lay quite near the city’s exterior wall, on the eastern side. If she could find some way up and over, then she might be able to escape attention. Until the blood started flowing, of course.

* * *

 

Dawn was close by the time Kara had worked her way around to the east side of Whiterun. Everything took longer, now that she was wanted everywhere. No roads, no settlements, fading into the wilderness at the faintest sound of an approaching soul. Talking to Vile was the first conversation she’d had since busting out of Solitude. Now there was a realisation more depressing than almost anything else.

She stared over the wall of Whiterun. More killing for Vile. She supposed he could have her sorting the grains of sand on a beach, or cataloguing species of grass. This, as much as she would never admit it, gave her a cold thrill.

She scrambled over the wall and flopped into what turned out to be the practice yard of the Companions. A Nord man and woman were already sparring there with wooden swords, despite the early hour. They turned with shock at her entrance, battered and ragged as she was. The man, Kara thought, was one of the famous brothers, though she couldn’t tell which.

“You look familiar,” said the man. “Do we know each other?”

Kara stepped towards him. The woman was backing away towards the door, where her real weapons hung from a rack.

“Vilkas,” she said. “I think this is—”

Kara reached her hand towards Vilkas’ chest and summoned her sword. Her laziest trick, but an effective surprise. She withdrew the sword and Vilkas collapsed. The woman reached her real sword and, hurriedly pulling it from its sheath, came at Kara with a yell. Kara turned aside the woman’s blade, then headbutted her in the face. She heard a shout from her right and flicked her eyes left to see an old Nord man up at the Skyforge. His figure disappeared from her vision as she parried an assault from the woman in front of her. She was good—ferocious but seasoned. Kara thought that without her curse they would be perhaps be evenly matched.

But it was Kara who had bound herself to Clavicus Vile and Kara who slashed open the woman’s chest. She turned to find the old man from the Skyforge coming at her with a huge greataxe. She met its blow with her own sword, the man’s eyes widening at her strength as she pushed back against him. She shoved, he went sprawling, and Kara leapt in to skewer him.

She allowed herself some slow breaths. Still, she had to move quickly, else those shouts bring guards. Three down, and who knew how many inside. She dispelled and re-summoned her sword, cleaning it of its blood, before heading through the door. Two Nord men were close on the other side, perhaps coming to investigate the noise. They drew their weapons when they saw the blood through the open door. One of them bore a similarity to the first dead man outside. Kara knew enough to designate him as Farkas.

They spread out on either side of her. Kara pushed Farkas’ blade back and jabbed a quick fist into his unarmoured cheek. She felt a cut into her side from the other one and spun to hack into his own side. She turned back in time to meet Farkas’ blade again and shove him into a wooden column. He grunted with the impact and Kara used the moment to pin him to the column.

The other Nord was still breathing and Kara took a moment to finish him. Others were gathering in the hall now. None were in armour—an old Nord man in fine clothes, another Nord man in servant’s garb, and an old woman with a broom. The old man vanished down some stairs, while the other two ran for the doors on the other side of the hall.

Kara hurdled the tables in the centre of the room and cut them both down before they could reach any place of safety. As their screams were cut off, she realised neither of them could be warriors of the Companions. She sagged there, but an arrow hit her thigh. She turned to see the old man had returned. He stood at the top of the stairs with a bow and he landed another arrow in her chest before she got to him. She wrenched his weapon from her hand and cut him down. His expression remained defiant to the last.

She caught a flicker of movement at the base of the stairs and expected a trap. How many more could there be? When she reached the bottom and turned the corner, a young Nord man and a male Dunmer stood halfway along the corridor. Unarmed and near-naked. The last, perhaps. Some signal passed between them then, for they began to change.

Their flesh rippled and bulged, great chunks of fur tearing from under their skin. Their faces twisted and lengthened, their teeth becoming great slavering spikes. Soon enough, two werewolves were barrelling down the corridor at her. Were it not for their hunched gait, they would have trouble hitting their heads on the ceiling. Kara breathed evenly. She had killed dragons, like Clavicus Vile had said. Vampire lords. Falmer and Chaurus and bandits innumerable. What were a couple of werewolves to add to the list?

The first one’s strength knocked her from her feet. Her sword, its grip lost, headed back to Oblivion. Claws raked at her chest and teeth came for her throat. She got a hand on its lower jaw and held them away. Then she let the mouth close over her arm and, screaming, summoned her sword. The beast went still and she heaved its weight off her, blood and saliva soaking her arm.

The remaining werewolf lunged at her, but she slashed at its arms. It fell back, whining. She pressed forward and jabbed deep into its gut. It collapsed against the wall and shimmered back into the shape of the young Nord. Bleeding from the same wounds as the beast had.

“You . . . you killed them,” he said.

“All of them upstairs,” she said.

He shook his head. “Aela’s out hunting. And Sonja—she’s even newer than me but she’ll . . . they’ll . . .”

“I’ll be long gone,” said Kara. She drew her sword across his throat. When she got back upstairs some guards had just entered from the city-side doors. She flicked her sword away and started running. Always running.


	16. 4E 212: The Legacy, Part One

Kara was more than adept at getting someone off her trail by now. Leaving Jorrvaskr a bloodbath, she fled south to Haemar’s Shame and the shrine of Clavicus Vile. The prince started talking as soon as she was within hearing distance of his statue.

“You know of the Champion of Cyrodiil, of course,” he said.

“Another history test?” she asked.

“There is no time for our usual enlightening banter,” said Vile. “The Champion’s journal has been recovered. It reveals the location of his armour. His enchanting skills were beyond compare and so several interests are converging.”

“Why do you want it?” asked Kara.

Vile paused. “I need something to sweeten a deal with Vaermina. Some icing on the cake. It is in a cave, north of Bruma. Barbas will guide you.” Kara turned to see the dog had appeared next to her, looking up at her with nothing but joy in his eyes. “You will need to leave now.”

“Thought you didn’t want me out of Skyrim,” said Kara.

“This is a special case,” said Vile. “You are still standing here.”

“One thing,” said Kara, leaving long pauses between her words. “What are these other interests?”

“Just the usual,” said Vile, speaking quickly. “Some Imperial soldiers, fortune-seekers. Representatives of Molag Bal, Malacath, Meridia, and Mehrunes Dagon. He thinks we’ll stop teasing him about the Oblivion Crisis. He is wrong. Oh, and Sheogorath too, though what he’s really up to we’ve no idea.”

“That’s a lot of daedra,” said Kara.

“All the more reason for you to get moving,” said Vile.

* * *

 

Barbas kept up an unceasing commentary on their trip south, though Kara said next-to-nothing. She still felt the urge to give him a sharp kick in the ribs. The dog explained the various motives of the interests converging for the Champion’s armour. Most of the daedra involved sought it for simple powermongering, though Meridia claimed her aims were nobler. Malacath insisted that as the Champion had been one of his people, the armour should remain in orcish hands. When Kara broke her silence to ask about Sheogorath’s motives, Barbas did a rare thing: he stopped talking.

“What?” said Kara, though she didn’t want to ruin the silence.

“I’m not allowed to tell,” said Barbas.

Kara found that she wasn’t that curious, all things considered.

“These other agents of the daedra,” she asked, “will they be like me?”

“Some of them have their own strange weapons and talents,” said Barbas. “Very strange. I do not understand them all. Some of them are scary.”

“I mean, will they not die like me?” asked Kara.

“I do not know,” said Barbas. He stopped in the snow. They had been walking without stopping for a day by then, and if they had crossed the border, Kara had not noticed. “The cave is over that rise,” he said, pointing with his nose. “Good luck!”

Kara snarled at him and stomped over the hill, flicking her sword into her hand. The land descended, then flattened out a little. Behind, a black cleft opened up into the side of a mountain. In front of it was a tattered campsite, tents in ruins, a banner of the Empire lying on its side in the snow. A few corpses in Legionnaire armour lay about the place. Two Imperial men in pale leather armour were kicking around in the camp, occasionally picking up things and throwing them aside. One of them saw Kara and clicked his fingers. They came alongside each other and watched as Kara approached.

“Which one are you, latecomer?” one of them asked.

“I work for Clavicus Vile,” said Kara through her teeth.

The two men looked at each other between every other word.

“Make a bad deal, did you?” asked the second. “Dagon gives his power without strings attached.”

They carried no weapons and Kara wondered for a moment if she was fighting mages. But the men came at her with their fists raised and she wanted to laugh. Kureeth, the greatest unarmed fighter she’d ever seen, might have been able to get past her—but these two? Even with the power of a daedric prince behind them, they would not be able to stop her blade. She flicked it away to see the looks on their faces.

“Neat trick,” said one of them.

Kara blocked the first two blows but the third hit her in the left side of her chest harder than any human had hit her before. She doubled over, wheezing at the pressure in her lungs. The two men backed away slightly, grinning.

“Lord Dagon stands behind our blows,” said one of them.

Kara stood upright. “Strength?” she asked. “Is that all?”

She came at them, taking blows to the body as she grappled with one of the men. His headbutt sent her vision swirling but she held on. It seemed, though, that her wrestling skills were not up to his. He soon had her pinned in the snow, grinning down at her. Kara twisted her hand in the perfect direction and summoned her sword. It exploded through his skull.

She kicked the body off her and spat bits of his brains. There was still a bitter taste in her mouth, coating the inside of her lungs, from all that time she’d spent submerged in the swamp. She wondered often if she’d ever draw a clean breath again. The remaining man looked with horror at the bits of his comrade staining the snow.

“That . . . that ain’t fair,” he said.

“Fair?” said Kara. “We work for the fucking daedra. Now do you wanna fight me or do you wanna tell your little master how you failed? I can see why the others make fun of him.”

“That’s a lie,” said the man. He came at her. She cut him down. She used a piece of flapping tent fabric to wipe her face, then flicked away her sword and stepped into the cleft. It was pitch black. She immediately returned to the camp and set about lighting a torch. Thus equipped, she delved into the cave.

There was a small hollow just inside the opening, high enough for her to stand in. Another Legionnaire corpse was here, its skull crushed into a bloody pulp. Kara crouched over it with the torch. A mace-blow of tremendous strength, she thought. At first she thought there was no way forward, but then, moving the torch back and forth, she saw the narrow opening. A natural gap that someone had tried to widen with pickaxes, Kara still needed to press herself sideways in order to navigate the passage.

On the other side, she found herself on a thin ledge, barely deep enough for her to take a single step without plummeting who knew how far down. There were some pieces of wood that once might have been a railing, and a rope ladder coiled around a spike of rock. Kara tugged at it before beginning her descent. Not wanting to drop her torch, she went down one-handed, a slow and cumbersome method. The ladder swung with her weight, sometimes bashing her fingers and feet against the rock. She gritted her teeth and kept moving.

When she reached the bottom a crazed face leapt at her from the dark. Kara summoned her sword and hacked frantically at them. When she was sure they weren’t moving, she saw the body was an Imperial woman in black robes. A follower of some other daedra. She kept walking. The tunnel there had been more obviously sculpted, widened. Perhaps three people could walk abreast, she thought. The ceiling was the equivalent of two storeys above her, and she sometimes thought she could hear scratching from up there. Every now and then there would be a side-tunnel, branching off into the dark. Kara stuck the torch down each of them, but most of them were too small for her height, and so she continued down the main path.

Half a dozen more times she encountered servants of some daedra, or Imperial legionnaires. Some had torches of their own, spluttering and near-cold. Others tried to swing their lanterns at her head. One summoned a flame atronach that lit up the tunnel with its internal glow. Kara cut it in half and dove away from its death-burst. She relit her dropped torch from its coals.

Eventually she came to a place where the way narrowed to a single person-width. Lit by two torches bolted to the rock walls, a small male Bosmer in black robes waited for her. He carried only a staff that glowed slightly white at its tip.

“Which unholy power do you serve, desecrating this path so?” he asked her.

Kara wondered if they were supposed to get into an argument about their respective masters, or if she was supposed to defend Vile’s honour.

“Clavicus Vile,” she said. After the second fanatic had jumped at her out of the dark, she’d kept her sword in her hand, and she swung it low, waiting for a response.

“I serve glorious Meridia, Lady of Infinite Energies!” responded the Bosmer. “Her champion has already advanced to the final chamber to claim the prize for our Lady. Your twisted dealings will not save you from her cleansing light!”

The Bosmer levelled his staff at her and a blinding white light engulfed her. She flinched back, dropping her sword to cover her eyes with her arm. She felt rather than saw herself be bombarded with small fireballs. Her clothing smoked but she managed to stay on her feet. She hurled her torch in what she hoped was the right direction and heard a satisfying crack. The blinding light vanished.

She opened her eyes, blinking heavily, and summoned her sword mid-lunge to bury it in the Bosmer’s chest.

“My . . . my death means nothing,” he said. Kara shoved his body off her blade and stepped through the narrowed bit of the tunnel. More torches lit the re-widened path here and a female orc stepped from where Kara was sure there couldn’t have been enough of a shadow to hide in.

“First sensible thing any of ’em have said,” said the orc. She wore a black hooded cloak and her skin was a pale grey-green. She threw her hood back to reveal black hair shaved at the sides, the rest tied into a ponytail. “Muzgu gra-Lagtha, agent of Malacath,” she said. “So the most wanted woman in Skyrim is the agent of Clavicus Vile.”

Kara took a step towards the orc, who raised her palms. However, the action raised their cloak a little to reveal a set of knives and pouches at her belt.

“Sorry,” said Muzgu. “Sore point, I’m sure. You are kinda easy to recognise, you gotta admit. So all those people you killed, that was for Vile? Gotta say, that’s a piece of shit master to have you do that.”

“And yours is better?” growled Kara.

“Hey, Malacath is harsh, but he’s fair,” said Muzgu. “He ain’t ever steered me wrong before. You oughta consider switching sides. Can’t be worse than the crap Vile’s dragged you through. Where you been living?”

“Wherever,” said Kara. She took a step towards Muzgu, who held up her palms again.

“I don’t want to fight you,” the orc said. “I ain’t got a death-wish like you. Besides, I’m doing this cause it’s right—you been forced into it. Wouldn’t exactly be a grand clash of moralities, would it?”

“Right?” asked Kara, gesturing around with her sword. “You think any of these fucked-up morons got any sense of what’s right?”

“Champion was an orc,” said Muzgu. “Empire covered it up. Didn’t want it looking like one of us folk saved all their hides. Gonna restore the armour. Bring out the truth.”

Kara felt a familiar weariness settle through her. In another time, maybe, she could have latched herself to Muzgu’s cause. But the past years had brought her too many bad choices, too knotted to be undone. Even were her curse and her servitude to be lifted, there was no home for her anywhere.

“You know I have to keep going,” said Kara.

“I know,” said Muzgu. “But maybe you won’t always have to. Might have more options that you think, is all I’m saying.”

“What are you, a travelling preacher?” asked Kara.

Muzgu grinned. “Something like that,” she said, and vanished into a small crevice. Despite their peaceful interaction, Kara didn’t feel inclined to stick her head in after her. Flicking her sword in and out of her hand, she continued her way down the tunnel towards the armour and the end of her quest. Of this quest, at least.


	17. 4E 212: The Legacy, Part Two

Kara kept her steady way down into the cave. She thought over the orc’s—Muzgu’s—words. She’d never failed Clavicus Vile, not in all the four Morning Stars that she’d served him. There was no reason for him to act vindictively towards her, not when she’d done so much for him. She tugged a torch from a bracket on the wall and put the thoughts from her mind. No time for it now, not when the Champion’s armour was still ahead of her, unclaimed.

She wondered at the lengths the Champion had gone to, delving this far beneath the ground, in such a hostile location, lugging who knew how many supplies. She wondered why she hadn’t encountered any traps. But then, she was far from the first to make the trip. She passed charred Legionnaire bodies and was both sickened and grateful.

No more faces came out of the crevices to attack her or question her life choices. The final chamber was roughly circular, at the base of a carved set of stairs, wide enough to turn a cart in, and was lit by a firepit in the centre, as well as torches around the wall. At the back wall was an armour stand with the full set of armour still hanging there. Unfortunately, three other figures were already in the room—not counting the half dozen dead bodies.

An Imperial woman in the armour of a Legionnaire Legate lay slumped halfway around to the left, her front caked in blood, trying to crawl her way towards the Champion’s legacy. The other two figures were circling the firepit with weapons drawn. Daedric weapons like her own, Kara saw.

The first figure was a burly Khajiit, taller even than Kara, his scorched leather armour curled around his muscles. His fur was a dark brown streaked with bright white and he wielded a spiked mace with screaming and furious faces carved into the sides of the head. He moved with grace despite his size and Kara waited at the top of the stairs, watching.

The second figure was clearly the champion of Meridia that the Bosmer had spoken of. He was an Altmer, dressed in flowing black robes and wielded a glowing sword that even Kara had heard of: Dawnbreaker. His free hand crackled with potential lightning and he bled from somewhere under his robes.

The two figures circled around the fire, silent but for the groan of the crawling Legate. The Altmer launched his lightning spell and it crackled across the Khajiit’s chest. The Khajiit smiled at the smoke coming off his armour. He abruptly sprang across the fire. The Altmer quailed and attempted to lift his sword in return, but the mace crunched into his skull, the Khajiit’s weight bearing him to the ground. The Khajiit struck twice more, then rose without hurry and looked at Kara, spitting onto the corpse.

Without looking away from Kara, he pointed his mace towards the crawling Legate and said, “If you don’t sit still, Legate, I’m going to yank all your limbs out of their sockets.” The Legate stopped crawling. The Khajiit smiled at Kara and tossed his mace casually from hand to hand.

“These worshippers of Meridia,” he said, gesturing at the Altmer’s corpse, “so soft and fleshy. You ran into some on your way?” Kara nodded, though the Khajiit did not seem to be really asking. “Power in their hands and not the strength to use it.” He kicked at Dawnbreaker.

Kara noticed several crevices around the room. Cracks of various size in the floor, walls, and ceiling. She examined the armour and descended the stairs, one at a time. She shared a quick look with the Legate, hoping her face was blank.

“Vile or Dagon?” asked the Khajiit.

“Vile,” said Kara.

“I am Dohan. I am endowed with the power of Molag Bal,” he said. “I am here to claim the armour of the Champion and increase my power even further beyond mortal reckoning.”

A voice came from one of the crevices and said, “What if it doesn’t fit?”

Dohan’s face curled into a snarl. “The agent of Malacath,” he said. “A coward. She has been taunting me for some time. But come. We must fight.”

“Must we?” said Kara automatically.

Dohan stood straighter. “There are”—he looked at one of the crevices—“four of us here. Serving our various interests.”

“Self-interests, in your case,” called Muzgu.

“She will be next,” said Dohan easily to Kara. “I will break her legs in a dozen places and leave her here to starve.” His head tilted slightly. “Molag Bal has fought against Clavicus Vile in the past. We shall be as avatars for them. Come. Throw aside your torch and bring forth your weapon.”

Kara tossed her torch into the firepit and flicked her sword into her hand. Dohan smiled.

“At last,” he said. “A fair contest. You know how hard it is to find equals when you are as we are. I hope you are strong.” He gestured at the dead Altmer again. “He was not.”

He leapt forward much as he had before. Kara barely had time to brace herself and raise her sword before the blow hit. Even so she was slammed back into the rock wall. Breathing through her teeth, she pushed against him and managed to send Dohan staggering back.

“Good,” he said, smiling. Kara used the wall to launch herself forward. Sword met mace with great clanks of metal. She turned aside blow after blow. Dohan was fast—faster than her—and at least equal in strength. But Kara did not think he had been Molag Bal’s champion very long, because he was making the same error Kara had made early on: he was lazy. He was relying too much on his superior abilities to see him through, rather than any actual skill.

Kara, on the other hand, had corrected herself. She’d had plenty of practice, during her year with the Dawnguard and the spare years since. Skyrim had no end of bandits to test her methods on. She knew then, as she delivered her first cut to Dohan across his forearm, that she was better than him. The knowledge made her grin and her foe returned it.

“Yes!” he said. “Lose yourself in the violence!”

Kara had been in that dark place before. Where the blood and the hate and the fear came together into twisted joy. Never again. If she could have pulled a lever then to remove her cursed strength, she would have. She could beat Dohan without it.

She pressed him back towards the fire until it licked at his tail. He shied forward from it and she gave him another cut, across his stomach, for his foolish lack of thinking. The Legate was edging her way towards the armour again. Kara pivoted to the side as Dohan tried a vertical downward blow. Kara left a long horizontal cut across his chest. She backed away a few steps and let him resettle himself. He was not smiling now.

She waited for him to strike. When he did, it was fast, filled with rage and entirely without finesse. She slipped aside from it without effort and buried her sword in his chest. She dispelled the blade and kicked Dohan onto his side. With her foot she rolled his mace away from his hand and down into a crevice. She heard the sound of it falling deeper and deeper. She did the same with Dawnbreaker, down a different hole.

Scanning the room, Kara found a large sack the legionnaires must have brought and crossed with it to the armour stand. The armour was orcish—perhaps supporting Muzgu’s hypothesis—but of a much finer quality than Kara had ever seen. Every piece, from the cuirass to the gloves, the helmet to the boots, even the greaves, gave the impression of subtle craftsmanship. The Champion had funnelled months of their life into this set of armour. The entire set gave off a soft, barely audible humming sound and was far lighter than it should have been when she lifted it.

For a moment Kara was tempted to see if it would fit her. She shook the idea off and started loading the sack. When she was done, she turned to the Legate.

“You knew I couldn’t let you have it,” she said.

“I don’t give a fuck about that,” said the Legate. She pointed to a corpse between her and Kara. “I was trying to reach that fucker’s healing potions.”

Kara knelt by the legionnaire corpse and found the potions in question. She tossed two to the Legate, who caught them despite her bleeding. She downed one in a gulp and propped herself more upright against the wall, working the stopper on the second potion.

“You’re not going to kill me?” she asked.

Kara shook her head. “This is my last job for Vile,” she said. Her own words froze in her bones for a moment. But if the daedric prince heard them, there was no response. Maybe her paranoia was just getting the better of her.

The Legate tried and failed to get to her feet. “My name’s Renee Cornelius,” she said.

“Kara Stormblade.”

Renee looked around at the bloodstained chamber. “Don’t know how I’m going to explain this.”

Kara tried a half-smile, guessing how she must look. Covered again in other people’s blood with a touch of her own. She nudged Dohan’s body with her foot. “Tell them you killed this one. I sure don’t need any more kills on my name.”

“I might’ve heard about that,” said Renee.

“I’d prefer if nobody heard anything about this,” said Kara.

Renee shook her head. “They won’t hear that you were here from me,” she said.

Kara looked around at the crevices, slinging the sack over one shoulder. “Muzgu!” she called. “You gonna try and stab me in the back on my way out?”

A dry laughter came from her left and Muzgu stepped from the shadows. “Hardly,” she said. “Let’s just say you’ve come out on top with this one.”

“You mean Vile has,” said Kara.

“No, I don’t,” said Muzgu. She gestured towards the steps. “You go and finish your job. I’ll help the sole survivor here. I’ll find you later.”

“I’m not exactly easy to find,” said Kara.

“And I’m not one of those fool guards,” said Muzgu. “Go.”

Kara went. Up the stairs and the tunnels. She picked up a lantern to use for the darkened stretches and kept moving. When she reached the rope ladder she put down the armour sack and stood looking up. She backtracked until she found a dead legionnaire who’d thought to bring rope. She tied one end around the neck of the sack and the other around her belt, then started to climb. The ascent seemed to go much quicker than the descent had. Just before she reached the top she felt the rope go taut. She pulled herself up the last stretch, then tugged rapidly on the rope. The armour came up even faster than she had.

It was a struggle getting it through the narrow gap to the first hollow, but she managed. Opening the sack to check everything was still intact, she exited to find the sun bouncing gently off the snow.

A wrinkled Dunmer in ragged robes waited in the camp. A carved wooden staff in his hand, three faces carved at its end. His eyes darted all over Kara and he pointed the staff at her. She remembered, just as the burst of magic hit her, that the only agent missing from the cave had been Sheogorath’s.

There was a burst of light and then Kara was seeing the world as if from a great depth below. The snow seemed to rise up in mountains alongside her. The ragged Dunmer was impossibly tall as he strolled over and took the sack, which had retained its original size. He crouched down and scratched Kara between the ears. She felt the fingers between her fur and wondered if she had finally lost her mind.

“His,” said the Dunmer. “He made it. His.”

Kara’s nose twitched and she sat perfectly still as the Dunmer trudged off southwards with the sack over his shoulder. Barbas appeared from the north and she felt fear course through her body, all-consuming in a way she’d never experienced before. Abruptly, the world returned to its former size and she was lying on her human back in the snow.

Barbas trotted over to her. “You were a rabbit!” he said. Kara groaned and got to her feet, every movement seeming large and unwieldy.

“After him?” she asked. There didn’t seem any point in trying to process this latest insanity.

Barbas shook his head in an oddly human manner that made Kara a little ill. “No!” he said. “He would only turn you into a mudcrab! Or perhaps a sweetroll! We will return to the shrine. Our master will decide the punishment for your failure.”

Kara quashed her fear. None of it seemed as important as it had before. There was little Vile could take from her that she didn’t want to lose anyway. She hesitated a moment, looking at the cave opening, waiting for Muzgu and the Legate to appear. They did not and she sighed, trudging after Barbas, back towards Skyrim.

* * *

 

“I have never lied to you, Kara,” said Clavicus Vile, once she and Barbas had returned to the shrine. “And I will not lie to you now. I am in two minds about what to do with you.”

Kara remembered what Muzgu had said and decided to think outside the box. “So make both decisions,” she said.

Vile laughed. “That’s exactly the sort of thinking that got you this job in the first place,” he said, though Kara couldn’t tell whether this was a compliment or not. “Very well. Your sword will no longer answer its summons.” The stone creaked and the statue’s free hand extended down. “Your strength will return to its previous levels. Your wounds will heal at the ordinary mortal rate. So, so painfully slow. You will remain un-ageing and unable to die by any means. Your servitude is finished, but you will not be able to leave Skyrim. You are forbidden from moving against any of my other agents here or elsewhere. If you break these conditions I will kick you over to Vaermina’s realm myself for an eternity of wandering through your own nightmares. Do we have a deal?”

Kara wanted to laugh, to cry, to crack off the statue’s smiling head. She met the stone hand and felt her strength drain away at the touch. Her knees buckled.

“Something to get used to, isn’t it?” asked Vile. “Mortality. Or something closer to it. What do you think? Punishment and reward. You can never leave the province where you are wanted for so much death, and they can never kill you. Yet some of the power still rests in you, and you are still free to walk the land. You did, after all, do many great things for me. My own power expands, thrums and sings from your actions. The world will never be the same. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a hunt to attend.”

The statue’s hand raised to its original position. When Kara looked around, Barbas was gone. She would have preferred not to be reminded of the Companions. Of all the horrific works she had wrought for Vile, it was that one that lay heaviest on her soul. Where would the people of Skyrim look to for heroic and selfless acts, with that ancient order now in ruins? And with the Dragonborn gone to wherever she was?

Her mind ran over the many dead by her hand. The one from each city and the reputation that had given her. It would be a long time before that was forgotten—though, she supposed, she had a long time to spare. There was a tower up at Arcwind Point that would suit her just fine in the interim.


	18. Sun's Dawn

The month of Morning Star faded into Sun’s Dawn. Kara took up residence in Arcwind Point, hunting in the mountains or, when she felt bold, below in the Rift. She fled at any sign of another human. She talked to the walls of the tower that she made her home, just to keep her voice in practice. Regrets, mostly. Or apologies to the dead. It made her sleep a little easier, if nothing else.

It took her a long time to convince herself that by the time the next Morning Star rolled around, she would be free to continue the year as she pleased. No killings. No trekking halfway across Skyrim on a daedra’s whim. Her camp became increasingly comfortable, so far away from civilisation. She got tired of looking at the unmoving draugr and walked slowly around the whole ruin, returning them to their sarcophagi. Once, an arm fell off one of them and rolled all the way down the steps to the centre. She retrieved it without even an internal complaint. This was her life now.

She was trying to carve a bone needle one evening when she heard footsteps coming up the ramp to her tower. The only weapons she had now were a bow and a knife, both scavenged from draugr and much older than her. She wondered how long she would have to live before she was old as the bow was now. Still, it drew well enough and she faded to the back of her room with an arrow in place and pointed at the doorway.

It was, however, Muzgu that appeared there. She flipped her hood back and grinned.

“Old-Father’s balls, you’re a hard woman to find,” she said. “You gonna put that down?”

Kara did. “Who’s the Old-Father?” she asked.

Muzgu chuckled. “A little joke some of us have about Malacath. I brought a friend to see you,” she said, gesturing down the ramp. Serana stepped into view, pulling back a hood dusted with snow. She was wearing thick furs over something black—neither Dawnguard nor traditionally vampire in make, Kara noted. Her hair had grown out, too, and hung long past her shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” said Kara. She thought that with two years to think it over, she might have come up with something better. “I should’ve listened to you.”

“You should’ve,” said Serana with a small smile. “But . . . I think you could’ve used my support. You’ve got it, if it’s not too late.”

Kara found herself smiling. “It’s not,” she said.

“That’s just lovely,” said Muzgu, coming over to crouch at the fire. After a pause, Serana joined her inside. Muzgu was pulling off her gloves and rubbing at her hands. “Do you know how much snow we had to walk through to get here? This fucking province . . .”

“How did you even find me?” asked Kara. She tried to remember how hosts were supposed to act. She hadn’t thought to provide herself with chairs or more food than she herself needed, or any alcohol.

“Well,” said Muzgu. “It weren’t easy.” She looked up at Serana, who was standing a little further away from the fire. “You want to tell it?”

“I don’t know half of it,” said Serana. “You found me, remember?”

“Right,” said Muzgu. She pulled at her ponytail and begun. “I helped that Legate down to Bruma—you were already gone by the time we got out. By the time I got back your tracks were gone. I asked around in Falkreath—apparently the new Jarl keeps joking about making you a Thane—and eventually someone put me onto the Dawnguard.”

“I looked for you there,” said Kara to Serana.

“You did?” said Serana, seeming pleased. “I didn’t stay long there.”

“I thought Isran had killed you,” said Kara. “I dangled him out over the foyer”—Serana started laughing—“but he only said that you’d argued with him and left.”

“Argument isn’t really a strong enough word,” said Serana. “We disagreed about what to do with all those Elder Scrolls we managed to get our hands on. Even the Dragonborn could only find one! Anyway, Isran wanted to hang onto them. I wanted to take them to the College, said we’d just borrowed one and the others should be there too.”

“Isran didn’t seem like the sorta fella to let other people have their way,” said Muzgu.

“You spoke to him?” asked Kara.

Muzgu nodded. “Briefly,” she said. “Heard most of this”—she waved her hand at Serana—“from Durak. Good orc, that one, even if he follows that fool.”

“Anyway,” said Serana. She ran a hand through her hair and smiled again. Something in Kara’s chest kicked out. “Isran and I fought. Just a little. He seemed pretty surprised that I wasn’t a vampire anymore.”

“I’ll bet,” said Kara, smiling too.

“Thought I was telling this story,” said Muzgu, though she didn’t sound too put out. Serana waved her hand in a gracious manner. “Thank you,” said the orc. “After talking to Durak I went to see my old buddy the Archmage and—”

“You know Vash?” asked Kara.

Muzgu smirked. “Yeah, he said he knew you back before. He’s got a thick head sometimes, but he’s a good orc and a better mage.” She frowned. “Don’t tell him I said that, though. Anyway, he remembered, when Serana was bringing the scrolls back, that she’d said something about going home. Figured that meant that big old castle out west. Nobody’d take me out there, I had to paddle myself across. Almost colder than it is up here.”

“You were with your mother?” asked Kara. Serana nodded.

“You know,” said Muzgu, “when your Dawnguard crowd cleaned out that place you didn’t actually, you know, clean it out? Place is filled with bloodstains and decomposing bodies.”

“It was like that when we got there,” said Serana.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” said Muzgu. “I wandered around that place for days, anyway. Fucking massive.” She paused. “Now we’re at a certain part of the story that, well . . .”

“Oh, now you want me to tell it?” asked Serana, grinning.

“No, really, it’s fine,” said Muzgu, grinning back. She looked at Kara. “She set me on fire.”

“Just a little bit!” protested Serana.

“Well,” said Muzgu. “Once we got all that sorted out and stopped trying to kill each other, she mentioned that you’d mentioned this place. We headed up here and here we are.”

“We’re going to get you out of your curse,” said Serana quietly. Muzgu nodded enthusiastically.

Kara cleared her throat. “I already did that,” she said.

Muzgu laughed. “How?” asked Serana.

“Sheogorath got the armour,” said Kara. Serana looked confused. “I’ll explain that another time.”

“Makes sense,” said Muzgu. “Was wondering why Malacath didn’t seem too put out by the whole thing. Much better having it in the hands of Sheogorath than Vile, or one of the others. So he released you?”

Kara shrugged. “More or less,” she said. “Don’t have to serve him, but I still can’t die.”

Muzgu snorted. “Looks like you got out of that deal pretty well,” she said.

Kara frowned at her. “I’m wanted in every hold,” she said. “And with this”—she gestured at her face—“I can’t go anywhere. I killed the Companions and . . . and so many others.”

“That was you?” asked Serana.

Muzgu waved a hand. “There’s still a couple of them left. They’ll rebuild.” She looked at Serana for a moment. “Actually, the reason we took so long getting here is because we went by Winterhold again first. Talking to Vash about you.”

Kara shook her head. “Even up there,” she said. “I killed a miner out in the snow.”

“Yeah, they know,” said Muzgu. “But—”

“But when I mentioned your alchemy training the Archmage got a little overexcited,” said Serana. “I thought he was going to burst something. Wanted to call for a healer.”

Muzgu laughed. “He’s been looking for an alchemist for Winterhold for a long time,” she said. “Last one turned out to be an ancient undercover vampire looking for revenge. Long story—the point being, he says if you come and run the alchemy shop in town, just kinda keep a low profile, then he just won’t mention to the other holds that that’s where you’re hiding out.”

“I still killed a man there,” said Kara.

Serana tugged at a loose piece of her hair. “Archmage said that if you want some penance for that, he thinks he could get the Jarl to agree to let you serve your time out in the Chill.”

“There’s a new prison under the barracks now,” says Muzgu. “So nobody rows all the way out there anymore. Wouldn’t be all that different from living on your little exile mountain here. Cold and quiet and lonely for a bit, then back in society.”

“I’d visit, of course,” said Serana.

“I still got all these scars,” said Kara. She was afraid of letting herself be convinced. Too much had already gone right with Clavicus Vile lifting the worst aspects of her curse. To have something closer to a normal life again . . . she almost didn’t want it to be true, even as she’d thought of little else for so long.

Serana took a few steps closer and Kara felt her heartrate rise. “Some of them have faded a bit since I last saw them,” she said. “And your hair’s longer. That always throws people off.”

“Still . . .” said Kara.

Serana looked at her feet. “I haven’t said this to Muzgu,” she said, “but . . . I’d stay there with you. If you’d have me. I could manage the store. You could be, uh, behind the scenes.”

“The power behind the throne!” said Muzgu, before abruptly closing her mouth and watching Kara for a reaction.

“Of course I’d have you,” said Kara. Serana embraced her, her head resting perfectly under Kara’s chin. Kara fought hard to suppress a flinch. It had been so long since someone had touched her without wanting to kill her. She wrapped her arms around the woman she’d spent so long with and so long apart from. “I’m kinda fucked up, you know,” she said.

Serana’s muffled laugh came floating up. “I know,” she said.

“You make a perfect pair,” said Muzgu. “Now, am I going to have to start throwing up from the sweetness of all this, or can we get out of this fucking snow?”

“You have been to Winterhold before, haven’t you?” asked Kara.

Muzgu stood and waved a hand. “Least there’s good company there,” she said. “Here you’re just talking to the wind.”

Kara reluctantly detached herself from Serana to gather up the few things she’d become attached to enough to bring. Her ancient bow and knife. Another battered pack with food for the journey. She wished her old fur hat hadn’t gotten lost somewhere during her murderous months. As she linked fingers with Serana and headed down the ramp, Muzgu ranging ahead, Kara realised the orc was right. Finally, blissfully, she would have some company other than the dead.


End file.
